


Psychopaths and Liars

by Water_Slime (Fire_Slime)



Series: The Long, Harsh Road [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Book 2: Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Don't copy to another site, Family Bonding, Fix-It, Gen, Harry-is-Loki, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Reincarnation-fic, Ron-is-Thor, Second Chances, Slow Build, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, bookverse, mergeverse, mostly canon, redemption-fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2021-01-03 10:22:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 88,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21177851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Slime/pseuds/Water_Slime
Summary: It's been over a millennium since Salazar Slytherin left Hogwarts, some sort of legendary monster hidden within the fabled Chamber of Secrets.  So, why has the monster awoken now?  It has to be because Harry's in attendance here, and he can speak to snakes, right?  And a basilisk can't be that hard to defeat, for beings from myths themselves.But that's forgetting that there exist some liars good enough that not even Harry can tell, and then there are pathological ones.  Harry's noticing some trends in the sorts of people he keeps encountering.  Life likes to keep laughing at him by throwing him in the way of psychopaths and liars, Harry has decided.(This story follows the events ofHarry Potter and the Chamber of Secretsfairly well.)





	1. Off to a Great Start

**Author's Note:**

> This book being the closest to canon of all seven books. Mostly because _Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets_ was my least favourite of the series for years, until, that was I got around to reading _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_, which then took its place. Important things still happen in this story, but it follows canon a lot more closely than the previous book.

It was just as well Harry had Ron's plan as a failsafe, because Ron was right: the Dursleys _were_ being worse this year than the last. He might have joked about them being unaware that he couldn't use magic over the summer, but that hadn't stopped him from keeping the knowledge to himself. He needed anything remotely resembling an advantage that he could get. Any little defence might meant the difference between life and death. Such was life at the Dursleys. At least it made good survival training. That which doesn't kill you, and all that.

And although they'd given out the reminders to everyone, he'd never agreed not to use magic, and therefore didn't consider it binding. He was sure that they'd know if he'd used wizarding magic—if only by recognising that magic was being used (in whatever method they recognised underage magic) and then tracking it to its source. But they wouldn't have been under the assumption that his magic was completely untrained if they'd known about his mother's teachings.

To be absolutely safe, he'd waited until the dead of night, in his room, and then tried his old experiment again. As if it drew on a completely different sort of energy, it was sluggish as an atrophied muscle, which was somewhat disconcerting. Either he'd somehow separated the two when they oughtn't be (perhaps subconsciously, even, that the Ministry not discover his endeavours) or the two magics naturally came of different sources. Either way, it served him, now.

Although he'd used this magic in the battle against Quirrell, that had been the deluded part of him, tainted by Thanos's influence. Perhaps it made sense that it made more effective use of his magic reserves. Perhaps those reserves, such as he'd ever built up, were locked up with the corrupted corner of his mind, and he needed to start anew, again. Perhaps his death had done something to his magic.

Using wizarding magic didn't seem to have done anything to deepen his reserves. And maybe he'd thought them deeper than they had been—he remembered, still, his thoughts of how shallow his reserves had seemed, during the battle with Quirrell. Then, he must have used his lifeforce to power half of those spells, and it wasn't as surprising that he still had little energy for the _other_ sort of magic to draw from.

After a week's such practice with nary a word from the Ministry, he considered his attempts a triumph. While it was a risky endeavour, he needed to practice this magic sometime. His mother hadn't approved when he'd told her on the Thirtieth, but she'd conceded that, if he hadn't been caught yet, the Ministry was likely unaware of his activities. And it wasn't as if he had anything else to distract him. The Dursleys kept him busy with chores, even though he had schoolwork he needed to work on. But that just gave him more time to think, to remember, to _dwell_.

He wished that even one of his friends had dared to contact him, but Ron must have warned them not to try, because the holidays were halfway over, and he'd yet to receive a single letter.

Now it was July Thirty-First, the only birthday he knew of. At that point, he'd used half of the rings—six, in all. Errol had shown up, usually in the middle of the night on a Tuesday. He suspected that Ron sent him off on Sunday for no better reason than that it was two days before Tuesday, and Ron said it usually took Errol a couple of days to get where he was going. This meant that Errol arrived back home on Thursday, and had two days to recover before being sent out again. Probably.

It was the end of the week (Errol was back home), it was the end of the month, it was another birthday, come and gone with none noticing. Maybe.

"I know what day it is today!" Dudley said in that horrible mocking sing-song voice. Harry had been pruning bushes in the garden, and had noticed a pair of big, round eyeballs staring at him from a hedge. He wondered if the Ministry had spies.

"Then you finally learnt the days of the week—or how to count to Thirty-One. You must be so proud," Harry said. The heat was probably getting to him, but it was rather galling, the way that Dudley never did anything but eat and play videogames (and sometimes go Harry Hunting, if he felt in the mood for exercise), whilst Harry was melting under the heat.

"No! It's your _birthday_," Dudley chortled. "Well, how are you going to celebrate _your_ birthday, huh? I don't know if you noticed, but it looks as if no one even _remembered_ except for me. What about your freak friends from freak school, huh? Did they remember?"

Something snapped audibly. Harry wasn't in the mood to find out what. "Well, if they did or didn't, I'll never know. Hedwig isn't allowed out of her cage, after all. So, if I was supposed to have received any letters…."

Of course, Dudley couldn't figure out that his friends would have to have their own means of sending letters _to_ him. Hedwig would only enable him to contact others. He frowned, trying to puzzle out whether or not Harry's explanation made any sense. Harry left him to it, quite literally; he removed himself to a different part of Aunt Petunia's garden, thinking furiously, wondering if anyone even remembered him. Ron must, but was it only because he kept sending back the rings? If he forgot, one week, what _would_ happen? It was tempting to find out.

And what of Hagrid? Or Hermione? Hermione had non-magical means of contacting people, and Hagrid lived in Hogwarts, and was unlikely to be in the loop as to Harry's situation. Although…he _had_ met the Dursleys before….

And then Aunt Petunia called him in, to talk about the very important dinner Uncle Vernon was about to have with a prospective business partner and his wife. Harry, sitting in his room, all alone, and with nothing to do, had to admit that this was the worst birthday present the Dursleys had offered yet. He was going to spend the entire evening in his room, pretending he didn't exist.

Or, he could do something else. Locked here in his bedroom for the day, what else was there to do but practice the other sort of magic?

But as he turned to fall onto his bed after his long day's labour, he found someone else already sitting there. An unfamiliar being with long drooping ears, and watery green eyes. He recognised at once the spy watching him from the hedges, and was instantly on his guard.

"You!" he cried, and then deliberately lowered the volume of his voice, lest Uncle Vernon hear and see fit to punish him for "making noise", and not pretending he didn't exist. "Who are you, and what are you doing in my room?"

The creature's eyes watered, and Harry fought back what he recognised as _pity_ of all things, for the being that had invaded his life, and now was poised to get him in a _lot_ of trouble with his relatives. That was ridiculous. But…he stared at the tattered, grimy pillowcase that served the creature for clothing, and wanted to just even give him a change of clothes. Dudley's hand-me-downs would look absurd on the creature, whatever he was, but…it was still an improvement.

"Dobby is Dobby, sir! And you is master Harry Potter, sir!"

Harry had to concede the point. He resisted the urge to ask the creature (evidently named "Dobby") just what he was, instead saying:

"Shh! Please, keep it down! My relatives are downstairs, and they _really_ don't want me making any noise. They'll blame _me_ for any noise you might make. In fact, now isn't a good time—"

"Dobby must warn Mr. Harry Potter, sir. Dobby has heard of your exploits, last term. That just last month, Master Harry Potter escaped He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named again! Master Harry Potter is truly a great wizard—"

This sort of talk made Harry decidedly uncomfortable. "I'm not a great wizard," he tried to explain again. "That's Hermione."

He swallowed, hard. Wondered whether Hermione hadn't merely forgotten him. He couldn't help the thought. It seemed true of everyone in the past.

"Ah, modest as well! Harry Potter is not only a great wizard, but kind and good as well!"

Harry gave it up for a lost cause.

"Please, sit down," he said, remembering his manners. They might come from the Dursleys, but it was the only positive lesson they had taught him. But this might have been a mistake, because Dobby's eyes watered, and he cried—

"'Sit down! Sit down! Ah, never before has Dobby been invited to sit down, as an equal! Harry Potter is—"

"Shh!" Harry said again. "You can't have met many decent wizards, then," he mused. Dobby nodded, and then his eyes widened, which was all the warning Harry got before the creature reached for Harry's desk lamp and started beating himself over the head. Uncle Vernon would have a fit.

He wrenched the lamp out of Dobby's hand, keeping a tight grip on it. "What are you _doing_?" he hissed.

But he was interrupted as Uncle Vernon's heavy footfalls indicated he was climbing the stairs. Harry shoved Dobby into the wardrobe, just in time for Vernon Dursley to appear in the doorway. The creature's squeals of pain must have caught Uncle Vernon's attention.

"I don't know what in the blazes you think you're doing here, boy—" he began, as Harry stood there, looking as bored as he could manage, with his heart racing, and the knowledge that he had a creature of unknown species hiding in his wardrobe, if Uncle Vernon dared to look. He bit back a retort about that not being the only thing Uncle Vernon didn't know; that wouldn't help.

"If you make one more peep, you'll be locked up here through the end of next week! So zip it!"

And he stormed out. Only then did Harry dare to breathe, letting Dobby slowly out of the wardrobe.

"Why did you—?"

"Dobby almost spoke ill of his masters, Harry Potter, sir! Dobby had to punish himself!"

Harry thought that he was better off not even asking why. "Your masters? Did they send you?" he demanded. "What are you _doing_ here, Dobby?"

"Oh no! Dobby would have to iron his hands in the oven door if they knew he was here, sir. No one knows that Dobby came here. But he couldn't risk Harry Potter, sir! You is in danger, Harry Potter, sir! Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts this year!"

Harry's mind reeled. _Not_ go back to Hogwarts? A small corner of his mind wondered whether that idea required a red ring, but he shook his head, chasing the thought away in favour of more relevant thoughts.

"But I have to go back!" he hissed. "Hogwarts is my home, more than this place is—hang on, how do I know this isn't all some trick? Wait…your masters…are they the ones who gave you those clothes?"

If they did, they couldn't care much about Dobby. Perhaps it meant he was less than loyal to them. Dobby nodded.

"'Tis a mark of a house elf's enslavement, sir. These clothes show that Dobby is his master's property, sir. Dobby is knowing too many secrets for them to consider giving him clothes…even if he is a very bad elf!"

Dobby was a house-elf, then. And his master was a sadistic bastard. Okay. Well, that was some knowledge. Dobby didn't seem too fond of his master, but didn't seem to feel that it was in his power to free himself, either. And what was that about giving him clothes?

"Why wouldn't they give you clothes?" Harry asked, setting aside the more important topic as he tried to decide whether or not "Dobby" was trustworthy. "You definitely need them."

"A house elf's clothes are the mark of his servitude, Harry Potter, sir. To give him new clothes would be to set Dobby free, sir. Dobby's masters would not be risking that! Dobby's masters are—"

His eyes widened, and Harry, recognising the signs, dropped the lamp on his bed, grabbing both of Dobby's wrists firmly. He was intent on damaging himself; Harry could feel Dobby straining against his hold, but at last he subsided. It seemed almost involuntary. If Dobby were here on his master's orders, it was against his will. And Dobby seemed shrewd enough, if he'd come here against his master's wishes, to find a workaround, a way to let him know if he were here on anyone's volition but his own. Harry relaxed.

"You didn't say anything," he said. "Don't start hitting yourself, or we'll never get anywhere. Dobby, you saw what I put up with! How could you say that I'd be better off _here_ than at Hogwarts, where I belong?"

"Terrible things is planned for this year at Hogwarts! Harry Potter sir must not go to Hogwarts! He is too great, he is too good, to lose!"

Harry shook his head, raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. There was no sense arguing with Dobby, and he didn't want Dobby to say anything that would risk him feeling the need to punish himself, again.

"What is being planned for this year at Hogwarts? What can be worse than what happened last year?" It was a school, not a battleground! "Hold on—does this have anything to do with You-Know-Who?"

He stared Dobby down, and paid attention for any tells. "Not…not He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, sir…." Dobby sounded hesitant, his eyes wide and pleading, as if he were trying to give Harry a hint. But the hint eluded Harry.

"What, then?" he demanded. "Can't you tell me—?"

"Say no more…say no more, it is too terrible for Dobby to mention, Harry Potter, sir!" Dobby cried. Harry tensed at the volume, but Uncle Vernon didn't seem to have noticed. Perhaps he was being oversensitive.

"Promise Dobby that you will not go back to Hogwarts! You must promise, Harry Potter, sir!"

Harry frowned. No. He didn't think so. If he promised, he'd feel the need to keep that promise, and while he could go haring off into the middle of the wilderness and practice magic with the Ministry none the wiser…what of his proper schooling? What of his friends? Although….

"I _must_ go back, Dobby. There's nothing for me here; I might as well be dead! Hogwarts is where my destiny lies, it's where my friends are—"

"Friends who don't even _write_ to Harry Potter?" asked Dobby, and Harry's eyes widened, and then narrowed. Was Dobby saying what Harry thought he was? He hadn't been receiving any mail, but—

"Dobby. How would you know that my friends haven't been writing to me?" His voice was deadly calm and level. This fact did not seem to escape Dobby, who squirmed under Harry's unfaltering gaze.

"Dobby, have you done something to my mail?"

Dobby wilted, and raised his left hand, and a bundle of letters, bound together, appeared above his hands, bound together with twine. He recognised individual handwritings—Hagrid's scratchy, wiry letters, Hermione's neat cursive, Ron's hasty scrawl. They'd all written to him, and he hadn't known. Ron's letter must be his birthday card. Harry swallowed, and sighed. Well, that answered one question.

Fury such as he was unaccustomed to bubbled up within him. Because, really, how dared anyone to do something so cruel as to cut Harry off completely from the only people who cared about him, when finally someone _did_?

"Give them here, Dobby," he said, his voice emotionless, and flat. Dead. Inside, internally, he seethed, but externally, he showed no sign of such.

"Harry Potter sir must promise that he won't—"

"I _said_ give them here. That is an order, Dobby."

"Harry Potter will not promise?"

"Especially not under duress," Harry said, arms folded. He glared at Dobby. This is what sympathy got you!

"Then Dobby has no choice! It is for your own good, Harry Potter, sir! Dobby is very sorry, Harry Potter sir!" Dobby said, and, with those ominous words, he raced out the door, and down the stairs.

Harry wished for the invisibility cloak, or at least deeper magical reserves, as he hesitated in following, standing back, watching, as Dobby levitated a pudding Aunt Petunia had left atop the kitchen fridge. It stood, poised over the floor, high in the air, and Harry understood.

"Promise Dobby that you will not go to Hogwarts!" Dobby cried shrilly.

Harry decided it was best if he weren't in the area, and made himself scarce. A second later, the violent tinkling of the glass bowl shattering to pieces reached his ears, even in the safety of his bedroom. Uncle Vernon would never believe he wasn't the cause. Never.

A moment later, an unfamiliar shriek was his first forewarning that events were about to take a turn for the worst, before Uncle Vernon thundered up the steps, and to Harry's room, throwing wide the door.

"Boy! Explain _this_!" he cried, brandishing an envelope in his waving fist.

Despite the movement, Harry could read the address of the sender (Improper Use of Magic Office, Mafalda Hopkirk), and knew what the letter said. In that moment, he hated Dobby as thoroughly as he'd hated almost anyone he'd ever met. He reminded himself that there were other, greater malices and threats than Dobby out there, but still….

Uncle Vernon was going to kill him. And it was Dobby's fault. He clenched his fists, and then relaxed his left hand enough to take hold of the letter.

"I can't know unless I've read it, can I?" he asked, in his levelest voice. Judging by the lack of comment of freaky creatures invading their home, Dobby had vanished, taking Harry's mail with him. It was probably just as well.

Uncle Vernon handed over the letter, crowing, "Well, go on, read it!"

Either he had enough brains to figure out what the letter had said, or he'd read it himself. Judging by the fact that the seal on the envelope was broken, it was the latter. No way out of this one.

Bracing himself, he reached into the envelope, and pulled out the dread letter. His eyes quickly scanned the words, and he seethed. It was just as well that it wasn't possible for blood to _literally_ come to a boil from anger. A hovering charm, eh? And they knew the exact time, but not that he hadn't cast the charm, or even been present? How typical. This was just his luck. The only concession made by him was that he _had_ been practicing magic over the summer—but it wasn't wizarding magic, and therefore was none of their concern.

"So, not allowed to use magic over the summer, eh? I suppose it _slipped your mind_. Well, since you've ruined my business contract, I suppose we'll have to keep you out of the way while I try to fix things. You will stay here, in your room, for the rest of the summer. I will see to it. And if you try to use magic to escape, your freak school will expel you!"

And on that triumphant note, Uncle Vernon slammed the door shut on Harry.

* * *

Uncle Vernon was even worse than his word. He installed a heavy duty lock and deadbolt on Harry's door, and put bars on the outside of Harry's window. It made Harry feel as if he were in prison, reminding him painfully of the end of his dreams. The last memories he had—timeline-wise, concerned the knowledge that Loki had been locked up in Asgard's dungeons. Harry wondered if this weren't the Norns laughing at him. If they were real, which was even more dubious than the rest of it.

He'd rarely seen Uncle Vernon display his handy side, despite knowing the man possessed it. It was telling that the only times Uncle Vernon had resorted to manual labour had been to try to keep Harry imprisoned and away from magic. But, as before, with the future nebulous and with a pressing dilemma limiting his options, Harry turned to the older magic, defiantly studying it, training himself late into the night of the Thirty-First, before the bars and lock had been installed. He knew what was to come for his part: a week of starvation, followed by at least ten days of short commons. The usual. But what of Hedwig?

He laid everything out before his mother, whom he was still halfway convinced could solve anything. Her expression was troubled as he told her the story.

Yes, she knew of house elves; no, she had never heard of Dobby; she didn't know how the Ministry tracked underage magic, exactly.

She wished that these events had happened earlier in the week, that they might already have known what punishment the Dursleys had in store for Harry this time. Had it been on Monday, Harry might have been able to send off a red ring with Errol. As it was, he was on his own. Hedwig's cage was locked, and, as he now realised was a stupid oversight, he had never learnt how to pick locks. The Twins might know; perhaps he could ask them. If he survived long enough to see them again.

But those were the superficial questions. The truth was, he had no idea how long it took an owl to starve to death, but he had little faith in the animal-hating Dursleys to show compassion and basic decency towards his loyal owl. Deep down, he'd already come to the very conclusion his mother reluctantly reached: the only thing he could do was to try to appeal to the Dursleys, and meanwhile sustain her with magic, as Loki had once held Thor back from the brink of death.

Of course, Harry had no experience with doing this, and he would, furthermore, be draining his own life energy for this, because he knew he didn't have enough magical reserves to sustain both himself and Hedwig for even a week, the week in which he'd receive no food. He'd use up whatever nutrients he'd recovered in his last meal, and burn through any fat he might have on his body, besides, but that wouldn't be enough. He was going to be cutting things very close.

It was just as well that the idea of releasing Hedwig had been thrown out (he needed a way of contacting others, if he could just figure out _how_), because he would never have been able to fit her through the bars.

Harry's practicing magic came in the form of drawing off his own magical reserves, and then his life energy, to sustain himself and Hedwig. He was beginning to realise that he'd done this all along, that it was perhaps what caused the Dursleys to favour such a harsh punishment to begin with.

Uncle Vernon came to install the bars and lock on the morrow, on the First of August. That began the unofficial countdown to the point where Harry would drain himself. Still, as he reminded himself all that day, after his pleas to Aunt Petunia fell on deaf ears, he need only sustain them for a week, this time. Today was Saturday, after all. Tomorrow, Ron would send off Errol, Tuesday, he would arrive to discover that he couldn't enter, and would perforce return empty-clawed, and on Thursday, Ron would learn the truth.

Thursday, Harry's distracted mind noted. _Thor's_ day. Was it to be his protector; was Thor his protector? Did his lightning bolt scar continue to bind their fates together? What _had_ become of Thor?

There was little else to think of besides, that first day. He funneled a small amount of magical energy into sustaining Hedwig, who had somehow survived on the Dursleys' idea of regular commons, thus far, but who now needed a supplement. He knew that it took longer than a week for him to starve to death, even whilst using magic. He figured that he wouldn't need to waste precious magic energy on sustaining himself, trapped in his room as he was, with nothing to do.

On the Second of August, Harry was startled out of a reverie by the door to his room softly clicking open, as Aunt Petunia entered, carrying a styrofoam tray.

She walked across the room to him, and shoved a tray of cheap ground turkey into his hands.

"Here," she said. "For the bird," she added unnecessarily. "My precious Duddy is such a sweet boy, he loves animals so much he couldn't bear the thought of your owl starving, associated with a freak like you as she is. Feed her the meat, then. I don't want anything to upset Duddy."

Harry raised an eyebrow in disbelief, but he was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. He tore open the package of meat, and with practiced ease began to gather the meat into a wad that wouldn't immediately fall apart, holding it out for Hedwig.

Halfway through, he turned back to Aunt Petunia. It had to be said, no matter how galling it was. "Thank you, Aunt Petunia. For listening. For saving Hedwig."

Her lip curled, as she eyed the packet with revulsion, and Hedwig with a similar look. "Don't thank me. It was Dudley's idea. I hate animals! All they do is make a mess! But Duddy wouldn't hear of it. He has such a big heart—"

"Well, I doubt that I'll be allowed out of here for the rest of summer. Please thank him for me."

She gave no response, and Harry returned to his task.

Aunt Petunia watched him the whole time with a sneer of disgust on her face, but in the end, she took away the empty packet, and left the room.

Somehow, it seemed to strengthen him, the knowledge that Hedwig's survival, at least, seemed assured. It seemed incredible that Dudley had interceded on her behalf, but he knew how much Aunt Petunia hated animals, and he doubted that Uncle Vernon would be able to overcome the glee he felt at seeing Harry's suffering long enough to take pity on an innocent bird.

But Hedwig was safe, and alive. That was what mattered. That, and holding out until next Saturday, the Ninth. And he knew he could make it, now he no longer had to worry about Hedwig.


	2. Rescue

Harry's supposition, had he but known it, was correct: for the most part, Errol left the Weasleys' home (known as The Burrow) on Sunday, and returned on Thursday. This meant that he had two days' reprieve before being sent out again. The general consensus was that, while hardly fair for Errol, and while it was certain to exhaust him, he _did_ get time to recover, and it was vital to know that Harry was safe.

Even Molly Weasley accepted that fact. What she had heard of the Dursleys, even third-hand, made her worry and fret over Harry's well-being. She might not quite believe what she heard, but she knew that his circumstances were not good.

Still, they were now halfway through the summer without incident, and if the Dursleys had any soul at all, they'd go easy on Harry on his birthday, surely….

Thor sent Errol out on the following Sunday, as usual, more assured in his decision to wait than he had been in the beginning of summer; if the Dursleys' opinions had radically altered over the course of last year, this had had plenty of time in which to show itself. Still, these check-ins were a form of reassurance; for whatever reason, perhaps because Harry'd _died_, Thor was sure that his younger brother was somehow in more danger than he had been before they'd met again.

He was proven right, of course, when Errol returned the following Wednesday night, as if he'd pushed himself to his limits, empty-taloned. He gave a few apologetic hoots in Thor's direction, but his audience was mostly too fixated on solving the relevant problem—what to do, what to do!—to pay attention. All Errol's behaviour did was to confirm what he already knew.

He decided against telling the Twins first thing. What he needed to do was sneak off on his own, and find out where Number Four, Privet Drive was, to make absolutely certain that this wasn't a mere error. Then, he could see what the Twins had to say about a rescue attempt.

Which meant sneaking out under cover of darkness, and somehow returning before Mum and Dad became aware of his absence. No one had expected Errol to come back so soon, but "soon" happened to mean "in the middle of the night". He'd reported in to Thor first, or the household would be in an uproar. It was the only thing working in his favour, he knew. Time was against him, but he didn't dare to delay.

Just how far away from Ottery St. Catchpole _was_ Little Whinging, exactly?

His preparation for what was now the inevitable rescue mission had only been a trip to the library to borrow a map. He knew that it wasn't that far—a day's drive, at most. But that was still quite a bit of time, if he were hoping to get there and back without being noticed. Unlike his journey to the hospital, there was no one to cover for him, and he didn't have an invisibility cloak to hide him.

He sort of missed the ability to travel by lightning, now. But hadn't Father said something about that ability being intrinsic to who he was, or something?

Or, if only he'd learnt Asgardian magic from Mother, as Loki had.

Although…wizards had a form of instantaneous transportation, too. And then, there was….

Oh, no. That was a very bad idea. Surely, it must be. And yet…how else to get back between the two locations in one night? He'd just have to hope he had enough money for it.

With a sigh, he grabbed Charlie's old wand, climbed out the window, and set off at a brisk walk away from home. He didn't want to stand out—Natasha had told him as much—but he also didn't want to move too slowly, for obvious reasons. He just had to get far enough away for no one to notice if he called the Knight Bus. Simple enough.

Far too time consuming. Still, it didn't take _that_ long to reach a deserted street. Then, he held out his arm, as he'd heard it was done, and, in a flash, stepped back in time to keep his feet as a lurid purple bus suddenly appeared in the middle of the street, and a boy a few years older than he currently was appeared.

* * *

The Knight Bus was not an experience he particularly wanted to repeat. It left even him dizzy and a bit nauseated and light-headed, which was saying something; he'd previously assumed that nothing was capable of such. Perhaps it was because his body was sort-of mortal. He wasn't sure, and, as he'd told Stephen, his case was unique. There was no means of researching how similar individuals had fared.

Still, at least he had a brief reprieve before he needed to hail the bus, again. While not exactly cheap, he'd been saving his money for quite some time, and that added up. Still…it was cheaper than he'd expected. Possibly because it was something of an acquired taste.

The brisk night air did him good, helped to revive him, that he might turn his attention to more important matters. Namely, finding Harry, and reining in his temper, lest he do unspeakable harm to the Dursleys when he discovered what unforgivable offence they'd committed this time.

He took a deep breath. No sense getting worked up before he made sure, was there?

He closed his eyes, and invoked Mother's magic, the only way he'd be able to find Harry, no matter the landmarks he'd been given. He kept an eye out for them, anyway, but he knew his primary reference was Mother's spell. Although he didn't encounter Stonewall High, or the Little Whinging Public Library, he _did_ come across Wisteria Walk, and Magnolia Crescent. Even though he didn't know precisely whither he was bound, he was still tempted to pick up his pace.

Instead, he closed his eyes, determined to maintain his focus, wondering if all Asgardian magic was this fickle and unwieldy. How had Loki managed to keep up several spells at once, then?

He'd never stopped to appreciate the skill that must have required, before, which was another sobering realisation, another place where he'd taken his brother's skill for granted.

Of course, he was paying for it, now.

The streets were quiet, lit only by the streetlamps lining the roads, showcasing the cookie cutter houses, with their identical yards. Everything just the same as everything else. He wondered how Harry had even _found_ any landmarks for him. He wondered how he'd be able to guide anyone back to this spot. Perhaps he should have brought Fred and George, after all.

He hadn't found Number Four, Privet Drive, yet, he reminded himself. He hadn't even found _Privet Drive_ yet. Perhaps, somehow, it would be distinctive.

It was not. In fact, he very nearly passed right by Number Four, Privet Drive. The walk was so boring that he had become lost in thought, which, as anyone who knew him would agree, was most unusual for him. But he turned before he could pass the forgettable building by, pausing to consider, before going around the side, still feeling quite out of his element, with all this sneaking about. He was the direct sort of person. Sneaking around was against his nature.

He knew Harry's bedroom at once: it was the one with the bars on the windows. It put him in mind of older times (newer times) of prisoners and punishments. What crime could Harry have committed since his return home that merited such?

And then he understood: Harry had had to return Errol empty-taloned because he hadn't been able to deliver a ring through these bars. They were a new addition, the product of the Dursleys' malice.

He forced electricity back, again, although this time his hands were out of his pockets, creating a miniature lightshow on the street, had any been there to see. They weren't. He briefly considered whether or not it was really healthy, suppressing the electricity thus, but he had no choice unless he wanted to make a spectacle of himself, and that ran counter to his current objective.

How to get to the second floor window. That required some thought, again. But he'd limited himself to mortal means thus far for a reason, and he was not about to stop now.

He wondered if Harry was still awake, if he was watching. If he knew Harry were asleep, he might be tempted to take more chances. It was just as well that he didn't know, one way or the other.

He would never be able to climb the side of the house, he decided, staring at the wall, which had no footholds. What had he expected, a limestone castle?

Perhaps he needed to take a risk.

He leapt for the second storey window, and from the force of practice managed to grab hold of the outside bar. It shrilled against his ears. But he managed to pull himself up, to peer into the window.

There was a split second where Harry remained utterly still, lying, evidently asleep, in a rather plain wooden bed, before he rolled off the bed and onto his feet, gaze snapping to the window in a gesture that made Thor think of the incident at the hospital, despite himself. Harry's eyes widened, and the tension left his body, as he saw who was at the window, quickly covered by an amused smirk, as he shook his head, striding over to the window, and sliding it open. All this in such a short time, the average mortal would probably fail to notice it at all.

"Hello, Ron," he said. He sounded wide-awake, and alert. "Fancy seeing you here."

Far too awake, and alert. It raised the question: what had his upbringing been, to cause that moment of panic before he'd realised the situation? Why was his first reaction to sudden awakening been such wary caution?

Thor swallowed, and tried hard not to dwell upon such matters. Someday, somehow, the Dursleys would pay for what they had done, but that day was not today.

A glance around the room showed that, first of all, Harry was locked into his room both from the outside, via the barred windows, and from the inside, via the deadbolt blocking the door from being opened. Then, too he noticed that the room was completely bare of any personalising items. There was an alarm clock on a bookshelf, a few books, and Hedwig's cage. Then, there was a wardrobe, off to the side, and the bed. Harry's school supplies were nowhere to be seen, nor was there any muggle means of entertainment.

"Yes, it's quite something, isn't it?" asked Harry lightly. "I don't suppose you want to come in?"

"That was not my purpose in coming, no," Thor said, blinking at the random offer. He wondered how long he could hang out the window before it became suspicious. "You did not send Errol back with one of the black rings. As I promised, I came to ensure that you were still well. I see that my fears were justified. But I am unacquainted with lock-picking, although I believe that the Twins are not. I shall return with them tomorrow."

"Leaving so soon?" asked Harry, crossing his arms in a fake pout. "You just arrived."

"I can't hang from your window forever," Thor said, feeling rather defensive despite realising that Harry was joking. "And it _has_ taken me over an hour to find this place. I took the Knight Bus," he explained, with a failed attempt at a shrug. Harry cocked his head, and Thor decided that it wouldn't hurt to explain a bit more.

"The Knight Bus is a magical means of transportation. It allows for transportation to anywhere on land. It is quite impressive. However…it is a bit difficult to…stomach, and those who pay first arrive first. I suppose on a busier night, it might have taken several hours to reach Little Whinging. I ought to have been more specific."

"How much did it cost?" asked Harry, eyes narrowing. Thor frowned, confused.

"Er—" he began, a bit nonplussed. What was Harry—?

"I will reimburse you your costs," he said. "As this is, technically speaking, a service you are providing. Don't you dare protest—!" he added, seeing Thor open his mouth to speak. This was every bit as frustrating as trying to talk to Loki back when Loki had still been the one scolding _him_ for reckless actions. It was more or less habit to do as ordered.

Harry leant forwards, towards the window. "I have every confidence that someone must be paying for my room and board, even here. 'Family loyalty' would only go so far with the Dursleys. The least I can do is ensure that you can afford to come here to check on _me_. Naturally, my money is with the rest of my school things, in the cupboard under the stairs—my old bedroom, you know. Already enough freakiness there that a little more won't hurt."

Bitterness lay heavy in his voice, a familiar bitterness that was best left in Thor's nightmares. Had Dumbledore set Harry on the path to repeating Loki's mistakes? He wanted to dismiss the idea out of hand, but see how ignoring the warning signs had availed him before!

But Harry shook his head, as if to rid it of those problematic thoughts, and gave a thin smile. Then he snickered, and grinned.

"I just thought how this must look," he half-explained. "What, are we practicing _Romeo and Juliet_, here? That's probably what the Dursleys would think, if they walked in—"

Thor frowned, confused. "…'_Romeo and Juliet'_?"

Harry's expression turned blank. "Yeah. You know, the quintessential tragic love story? Shakespeare? Ring any bells?"

He cocked his head, as if a different angle would show him that Thor was, in fact, joking. But he wasn't. However, one thing _did_ stand out in the stream of whatever Harry had just said.

"…'Shakespeare'? What's that?" he asked. He seemed to be parroting whatever Harry said back to him, but he couldn't help his curiosity, now. He knew that word. He knew that he knew that word, and not just as some odd imperative about brandishing weapons.

_Shakespeare in the Park. Does Mother know you weareth her drapes?_ asked the memory of Tony's voice. He had doubtless been intended to make something of it, even then.

Harry looked appalled, and rather horrified. His head sank into his hands. Then, he snapped back to attention, looking quite determined.

"No," he said. "I refuse to accept that. You _must_ have heard of Shakespeare. _Everyone_ has heard of Shakespeare."

Thor just stared back at him, blankly.

"Come _on_," said Harry. "_Henry V_? _The Taming of the Shrew? A Midsummer Night's Dream_? _Hamlet_? _**Macbeth**_?"

Harry watched with what seemed ever-mounting despair as Thor shook his head to each name in turn. Harry threw his hands into the air, at last, in exasperation. He wandered over to the sparse-populated bookshelf against the side of the room, and began rearranging what few books lay there.

"No. I refuse to accept that," he said again. "I am somewhat partial to drama myself, and there is no way I can just stand back and let _anyone_ remain ignorant of the greatest playwright of this millennium, at the very least. I don't care if you don't read, Ron, you are going to read _this_," he said, shoving a thin paperback through the bars. Luckily, he kept hold of it, because Thor was still somehow keeping himself aloft by holding on to the alarmingly sturdy bars of the window. He could feel this one trying to come loose. He must be running out of time.

"Ah, er, Harry, I am holding on to the window with both hands," he reminded him. "Perhaps this could wait until tomorrow."

"Such an _offence_ cannot be allowed to stay as it is for longer than absolutely necessary."

"It can wait until tomorrow," Thor said, in what he hoped was a no-nonsense voice. Not that that had ever stopped _anyone_ from arguing with him. Harry folded his arms, pressing the thin volume into his side. Perhaps it was the elephantine size of Dudley's cast-offs, but he didn't seem to notice.

"Where did that book come from, then?" Thor asked. He was under the impression that the Dursleys actively worked to prevent Harry from finding anything that might make him happy.

"I stole it from the school library," said Harry with a shrug. Thor might have chastised him, but he remembered what he'd just been thinking, about the Dursleys going out of their way to keep Harry unhappy. How _else_ could Harry have acquired anything before he came to Hogwarts, except by theft? The Dursleys clearly didn't let him keep his own money; all ordinary legal recourse was out of the question. Still…it was a stark contrast to their old life. Neither of them had much of anything in this one.

And Harry was offering this to him, if even only to borrow. What did _that_ signify?

Harry shrugged. "If it must wait, I shall wait," he conceded, but Thor sensed that he was not as indifferent to this course of events as he sounded. But he had no means of taking hold of the book, and any other way of transferring it through the window risked damaging it. There was no way he was risking damage to one of Harry's few possessions.

"Then I shall return, with Fred and George, and we will rescue you tomorrow night," Thor vowed. Harry gave another thin smile.

"Yes," he said. "But be sure you learn whether or not they know how to pick locks, first," he agreed, his gaze downcast, as if looking at something only he could see.

* * *

To say that the next night went off without a hitch would be a gross exaggeration, and rather untrue.

First, they had to find a way to remove the bars from the windows; forewarned (if angry that 'Ickle Ronniekins' had gone off without them), they nevertheless made use of their forewarning, bringing the family flying car with them. They tied rope around the bars, and pulled them from where they were lodged into the window frame.

Harry, meanwhile, had gathered Hedwig's cage, and the copy of _Hamlet_ he had stolen from the school library, and was prepared to hand these over, sending off Fred with a warning about the creaky stair in the flight leading down to the ground level. The cupboard under the stairs was easy enough to find, but Fred returned in a bad humour, demanding to know why it looked as if there were a mattress in there, and a blanket. Harry paled, and visibly searched for excuses, urging everyone to be as quiet as possible. Fred frowned, as if suddenly wrong-footed, and glanced at Thor, who looked away.

Yes, he knew. And the Dursleys had best be thankful that there was nothing yet that he could do about them without drawing unnecessary attention—from the Wizarding World, or from home. While it would doubtless be an interesting experience, he didn't relish the thought of meeting his younger self, particularly if said younger self brought his younger brother with him.

But that thought was set somewhere into a hypothetical future, one he didn't intend to permit to be realised. Instead, he did his best to alleviate tensions amongst their group, and Harry joined Fred in carrying Harry's belongings (of which there were alarmingly few) back into Harry's room. It was Thor's job to receive them and find space for them in the car—not a difficult task, considering how little Harry had to call his. While they waited for Harry and Fred to return, George picked the lock keeping Hedwig's cage shut. Thor had half a mind to remind him to keep his hands on the steering wheel, but…well, they weren't going anywhere yet, were they?

Hedwig appreciated her newfound freedom by flying in a circle around the car, just the once, before landing on top of her cage with a quiet hoot.

A few moments later, Harry and Fred returned with what little Harry had brought back from Hogwarts. Inside that trunk, Thor knew, were Harry's most prized possessions, amongst them the Nimbus Two Thousand that Professor McGonagall had bought him, and Harry's Dad's invisibility cloak.

That was all it took, those two trips, and it had only required two because Fred had lost focus once he caught sight of Harry's erstwhile lodgings. He was clearly still stewing on the matter, and Thor knew that Harry mustn't come to associate The Burrow with further inquisition. He did his best to steer the conversation away from such dread topics as they arose, although that wasn't saying much. Harry, however, seemed to notice, with something of a grimace.

Fred seemed much calmer back at The Burrow, but his jaw was set at an angle suggesting they had not heard the last of this.

Unfortunately, such concerns had to be set aside as who should come rushing forth to encounter them than…Mum.

Technically, she had no authority over him, or maybe she did, but either way, it didn't matter: she was the single most terrifying woman he'd ever met, and that list included both Sif and Natasha. He suspected it was the fact that, on an ordinary day, she was so sweet and kind that, when she was angry…it stood out.

Right now, even Harry looked a bit…startled. He shrank back into himself, as if from habit, until Thor rested a hand on his brother's shoulder: reassurance, strength. He glanced up at Mum, willing her to see how much she was scaring Harry before…something bad happened. What, Thor couldn't begin to guess.

"Hello, Harry, dear," Mum said, when she'd finished her rant about how irresponsible it was for them to have taken the car, they could have been _seen_, they could have cost Dad his _job_. Harry cringed and squirmed backwards, and Thor leant forwards to whisper, "Peace. She will not fault _you_."

And sure enough, Mum was quick to continue,

"Oh, relax. I don't blame _you_, Harry dear. Please, come in."

"Welcome to The Burrow," Thor said, as the pushed the door open for Harry, whom he was still right behind, steering him around the obstacles that comprised the front yard. Covered in gnome holes, again. Oh, well.

Harry took in the inside of the house with slightly more interest, showing that he was beginning to recover from Mum's tongue-lashing. Good.

"I know it's not much," he said, feeling the need to justify The Burrow to an outsider, "but—"

Harry closed his eyes, for a second or two, tilting his head back. A soft smile spread across his face, not the usual bitter smirk Thor was most familiar with, or a grimace.

"I think it's _wonderful_," he decided, as if at that very moment. "Full of love and life. The way a house ought to be."


	3. The Trials of Ginny Weasley

Harry did indeed love the house, which was as different as it was possible to be from Number Four. The Burrow was, as he had himself said, full of life and love, and magic, too, of varying states of solidity and intelligence, and rarely any specialties.

Mrs. Weasley took some getting used to, fussing over him as she did. He hoped that Ron, Fred, and George would get reduced sentences pending her realisation that Fred had been completely honest when he had told his mother, in his own defence, naturally, "But they were starving him, Mum!", which statement was undeniable, because this would have been the seventh day in a row he went without any food.

Despite this painful fact, he forewent Mrs. Weasley's delicious cooking to observe the new spectacle that was de-gnoming a garden. He'd explained that it was generally agreed in muggle medicine that people who had gone too long without food should be eased in to the process. Was it different for wizards? He couldn't know, but he thought he shouldn't risk it.

Ron, Fred, and George all remembered that he'd had no such reservations about the Welcome Feast at Hogwarts (and no such problems, either), but they kept their silence to a man, without even need of conference. That was an impressive sort of bond.

An unexpected answer to an old question came when Mrs. Weasley declared that, for their crime, her three sons were to de-gnome the garden.

"Let's see what Lockhart has to say about this," she said. There was an odd tone in her voice, one which Harry couldn't readily identify,

"Lockhart?" he asked no one in particular.

"An old fraud," said George, scoffing. "He's written a lot of rubbish."

"Mum fancies him, though. She reckons he's _brilliant_," Fred sighed.

Harry took one glance at the picture of the man with artificially wavy blond hair, and finally understood the prank the Twins had pulled on Ron last year. It seemed even crueler now.

"So _that's_ where Ron's curlers came from!" he cried, and then covered his mouth. He'd forgotten to be quiet. The room momentarily silenced, and then Fred slung a conspiratorial hand over his shoulder as Ron hung his head, as if too disturbed by the memory, trying to block it out.

"Yes, indeed, little brother," said George. "So glad you caught on, finally."

"Well, I've never _heard_ of this Lockhart before," Harry protested, indignant. "How could I, trapped at Privet Drive as I've been?"

Everyone's mood soured at that, and the point was conceded.

"Boys, behave yourselves! If you think you know better than Lockhart, then just leave! You'd best get this done before the day gets too hot, now hadn't you! And I _do not fancy Lockhart!_"

The pink in her cheeks belied her words, even without Harry's ever-observant lie-detection ability.

Harry sighed, and stood along with everyone else. "Not you, Harry, dear. You didn't ask them to drive you across England in that flying car. I can't believe Arthur—!"

"It's quite alright, Mrs. Weasley. I haven't had the opportunity to do much _besides_ sleep, lately. And I've never seen a de-gnoming before…."

"Oh, it's dreadfully boring work," she assured him, but he smiled at her, instead.

"Thank you for taking me in, Mrs. Weasley, and for the food. It's delicious."

He slipped out the door before Ron. The Twins followed, with longing glances at the breakfast Mrs. Weasley was still working on.

"_Everyone_ knows better than Lockhart," George grumbled. "Even Ron."

Ron started, apparently too deep in thought to realise that they might mention him and drag him into the conversation.

Harry, sensing a cue, turned to Ron. "Ron, how _do_ you de-gnome a garden?"

* * *

Harry settled into life at The Burrow with appreciable speed, aided by the sympathy and generosity of (most of) the family. Fred and George, even, were welcoming in their own way, and Bill, the eldest Weasley son, and Charlie, the second eldest, on temporary vacation to visit their family, were cordial, friendly, sorts. Mrs. Weasley fussed endlessly over how skinny he was, and tried to make him eat third and fourth helpings at meals.

Mr. Weasley was fascinated with muggle culture, and pestered Harry on the purpose and history of such diverse objects as rubber ducks to spark plugs. He decided that, after cars, televisions were the most marvelous invention, and tried to set about figuring out how to get one to run.

Despite his fascination with muggles, he never seemed to be able to pronounce the word "electricity" properly, a fact which caused Ron to sigh in what seemed fond exasperation, the Twins to laugh, and Percy to huff. The end of fifth year had not put Percy in better spirits; he spent far too much time studying and fretting over his results, and was quite as high-strung as before, suggesting that that was just inherent in his nature, and not caused by stress.

And then, there was Ginny. Ah, Ginny. From the time he had arrived, he had seen very little of the youngest Weasley, except for at meals. She seemed to spend most of her time hiding from him, whether in her room, or if not, where, he didn't know, and he wasn't inclined to stalk her to discover her whereabouts.

At least, not at first. But he had to admit to being…perhaps a bit _miffed_, at the knowledge that, while the rest of the Weasleys seemed to tolerate him, at the very least, Ginny was avoiding him as if he were…well…a _monster_.

She was just shy, he told himself. After all, she blushed and stammered and had all sorts of minor accidents when he was around, and it made sense that not _all_ of the Weasleys would be able to avoid the star-stricken madness that was his celebrity. But everyone seemed intent upon commenting on how odd it was for Ginny to be this quiet and withdrawn. Was something wrong with her?

Was he the cause? he wondered, instead, brooding to himself. Did she sense that there was something _not right_ about him?

Well, somehow or other, he'd just have to change her mind. Perhaps she was merely star-stricken, as indeed she seemed to be. While rather annoying, this could be dealt with, and she'd eventually grow out of it, anyway. But, the alternative….

It was then that he came upon a most ingenious, or, to put it more accurately, rather stupid, plan. But, when Ginny awoke the next morning, sopping wet and miserable (he knew too little how to prank someone _without_ the use of magic, which made it fortunate for him, and highly unfortunate for her), she just blamed the Twins, and then had her mother help her to get properly dry again.

It took three days of attempts at what he could manage of magicless, muggle tricks before the Twins caught on, and gave him the helpful advice that the Ministry could not detect magic done in wizarding homes. Which was highly unfair, but he wasn't about to complain. Or to obey the law, when he'd never agreed to it, and had already been punished for breaking it.

It _was_ rather frustrating that, no matter what he tried, from redecorating her room into a Slytherin scheme, or rearranging her calendar so that she mistook what day it was (or crossing out a few more days on the calendar, so that she seemed to have less time than she had), to _dyeing her hair black_, she just thought that it was Fred or George messing with her.

The Twins, while perplexed, and flummoxed, as to _why_ Harry would _want_ Ginny to know that he was the one behind it all, nevertheless somehow contrived to be away from the house overnight. How they convinced their mother to let them stay the night at Jordan's was to forever remain a secret, but Harry was grateful to them. He resolved to make this one count.

He had, of course, been spending much less time than he ought with Ron, but Ron left him alone, as if sensing that interrupting him when he was on a mission was a bad idea. His shift in focus had been rather abrupt; the first week he'd hung out with Ron, working on homework together, or playing quidditch (or chess), and then, suddenly, Harry's attention was all fixated on solving the current problem.

Perhaps it was a sign of maturity, that Ron left him alone. He would worry about it later. For now, he took advantage of the fact that Ron had found other things to do.

Like…reading Shakespeare? Harry'd definitely comment on that later. Right now, he needed to think. (Had he been _reading_ the past few days? _Ron_?)

"Alright, Ginny," he said. "Let's see if you can overlook _this."_

Ron glanced up from _Hamlet_, frowned, and reached out a hand, and then let it drop.

This was something of the equivalent of a _carte __blanche_, for Harry, who took the opportunity to excessively plan out what he needed to do. Part of the problem was that nothing could be permanent; everything he did, he ensured was something that could be undone, with relative ease, by magic. He didn't want to irreparably damage something just because he was trying to get Ginny to talk to him. That would have the opposite of the desired effect. He knew that much.

Everything he'd done, to some degree or other, was difficult to remove, which was why Ginny still had Slytherin pennants hanging from her walls, and black hair. The short-lived era of muggle pranks were the most insoluble. And an eraser—or the simple passage of time, would undo the muggle round of damage he'd done to her calendar. A quick drying charm took care of everything but her wet hair. But the moment he'd started using magic, he'd veered just slightly to the side of the normal road, walking alongside a familiar path. He'd built in resistance in most of his spells to things like _finite incantatem_, sometimes even daring to bolster an ordinary spell with his _other_ sort of magic.

When he didn't just resort to that altogether. Hey, he already knew how to manipulate that magic. As long as he stuck to effects that he knew how to replicate (more or less), with _wizarding_ magic….

Well, he was still limited to the first-year courseload.

He snuck into Ginny's room in the middle of the night, which by now was familiar terrain. He managed to transfigure one of her fake trophies into something more alarming, and had already superficially disfigured the rest of her posters (all of which seemed to be of a quidditch team known as the Holyhead Harpies, whoever they were). She had a few books, and some _non-_quidditch related paraphernalia, but she didn't even have a stuffed animal that she slept with. And the fact that she grew up with Fred and George made her difficult to startle. He essentially had the options of giving up the ghost, or upping the ante, and using more advanced spells. Stuff covered in the year two curriculum, say, which, having yet to go to Diagon Alley to pick up supplies, he had no way of knowing what those might be.

But who was there to suspect him, anyway? Not to suspect that he'd been behind all of this—that was the point. But who would think he was using non-wizarding magic?

Ginny awoke in the middle of the night before he could make a mistake. He froze, unsure what to do. He hadn't stayed as long on previous rounds, which perhaps explained why she hadn't woken up, or perhaps, subconsciously, the absence of the Twins made _any_ nocturnal visitor more suspicious. He didn't know.

"Who's there?" she demanded, breathing heavy in the moonlight streaming in from her open window. The air might almost be considered cool, but then, it _was_ the middle of the night. "Answer me now, or I swear I'll—"

"Hello, Ginny," Harry said, raising a hand to wave at her in a half-awkward way, and stepping back from the wall.

Her eyes narrowed, hair flying around her in a whorling ring as she spun to face him.

"Who—?"

"It is only I. Harry," he clarified, into the tension that followed. She rocked where she stood.

"H-Harry?" she asked. She reached out a hand, and flipped on a lightswitch near her bed. Her eyes were wide, her breathing still pronounced and heavy. She glanced at him, wild-eyed, and her eyes narrowed. "…Harry Potter?" she asked, sounding a bit faint.

"No, Harry Houdini," Harry said lightly.

Ginny collapsed onto her bed, sniffling. "What—what are you doing here?" she demanded, her voice tremulous and weak. Well, she was talking to him. That had to be a start.

"Er," Harry began, and then paused, uncertain of where to go with the rest of his sentence. He hadn't expected her to wake up, more or less alert, and demand answers. He had, the first few times, but by now—

"This is _my_ room, Harry," she said, her voice low and morose. Weak. Feeble. "Why—why have you—?"

She seemed to be fighting back tears, and Harry understood just how far out of his arena he'd stepped. _Now_ what did he do?

"Er—" he said, again, this time with even less idea of what to say.

"How _dare_ you come into my room without my permission? In the middle of the night? What were you thinking!" she demanded. Her eyes were red, and she was crying, but her voice was raised, and he realised that he'd rather not deal with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley bursting in on him in the middle of the night. Perhaps this whole idea had, in fact, been stupid.

Hey, she was talking to him. He cocked his head, unsure what the fuss was.

"Well…I mean, I thought…. Well, your brothers share rooms. What's the problem?" he asked.

"The 'problem' is that this is _my_ room!" Ginny cried, throwing her arms up in the air. "It's supposed to be my _sanctuary_. How would you feel if someone invaded _your_ room in the middle of the night?"

He shrugged. "That's not likely to happen. I mean, the Dursleys avoid me as much as possible, and the bars they put on the outside window—"

No, he still didn't get what she meant. He thought of what he knew of living quarters. The smallest bedroom, at Number Four. Avoided by everyone, and made impregnable by all except the most determined by his Uncle Vernon, safe—for everyone _but_ him. Nope.

The cupboard under the stairs. A place to be starved and tortured and shunned, to be put to be forgotten, or for storage, the way you might put away a mop or a broom. No safety there.

The gryffindor dorms. Shared with several other boys, and therefore besides the point. Safety in numbers, perhaps, but irrelevant with regards to her query.

Loki's room. Rarely visited except for sleep. Loki had turned to the library for everything from refuge to answers, knowing that few would venture there. He'd had attendants, as everyone highborn seemed to, although they'd kept to themselves. But he'd never been _alone_ in his rooms, and therefore, had sought for privacy elsewhere.

Ginny huffed, and sighed, a lost little sound, muffled and bleak. Glancing at her face, he saw that she was crying. His heart wrenched a little, at the sight. His conscience twinged. He hadn't meant…. "You really don't get it, do you?" she asked.

He shook his head, lowering his gaze away from her.

"I'm sorry," he said, helplessly. "I just wanted to talk to you, and you were avoiding me. It made me feel a freak, the way the Dursleys do. I suppose I overstepped my bounds, but I didn't realise—"

She stared at him, cocked her head to the side, resting her chin on her hands.

"It's my room, and it's private. Off bounds. Girls only," Ginny said. "You wouldn't understand. You're a boy."

Harry said nothing. Ginny sighed. "You're the one who's been pranking me, then?" she asked, her tone almost businesslike. She brushed her hair back from her eyes without looking, turning to glance at him, instead. He just nodded, still mute.

"You've no right to violate my personal space," she said, eyes narrowing at him. He nodded. He didn't feel like much of anyone right now. Not a prince. Not a hero. Not even _Harry Potter, that delinquent freak_. It figured that he'd slipped up, ruined everything. What else did he deserve?

"I'll just go, then," he managed to say. He wouldn't be surprised if she couldn't even hear his words. You had to strain to listen to them. He made for the door. Hesitated.

"Although…with your permission, I think I could fix your room, at least."

Silence. Ginny waved a hand in the air, in a gesture of dismissal. As if she were a princess, or a queen, on a high throne.

Mother had red hair. It was a stupid time to think of it, but there the thought was. Black hair didn't suit Ginny. He'd chosen it as a clue, but she'd overlooked it, thought the Twins were teasing her.

"Go ahead," she sighed, running a hand through her hair, starting as she noticed its colour before sighing, withdrawing her hand, sitting at the edge of the bed.

"_Servo stellas_," Harry whispered. It was a spell he'd come up with himself, a spell that made the spells after it more powerful for a while. He didn't know what sort of magic it was, and therefore was reluctant to share it, but it meant that he could overpower the magical resistance he'd embedded in the wizarding spells he'd used.

Ginny supervised his efforts to set her room to rights. He fixed the posters and the sculptures, and the dancing unicorns on her bookshelf. He fixed the calendar, and the trophies, and the door. All that remained was Ginny's hair.

"I suppose I should go, now," he said, eyes still downcast. He'd mastered this at the Dursleys. When you made a mistake, call as little attention to yourself as possible. Ride out the storm as best you could with the scant refuge provided, and show only contrition. Don't talk back.

"Wait!" Ginny cried, and then put a hand over her mouth, as if surprised by her own noise. "What does it mean? _'Servo stellas_'?"

She'd heard that? She wasn't supposed to, and he didn't know if it was even really a wizarding spell, although it came from Latin.

"'_I save the stars'_," he murmured in reply. "It lends extra power to some spells."

"That's really neat," she said. "I've never heard of a spell like that. It sounds really useful. And pretty."

She sighed, a distant expression crossing her features.

He would not ask her not to tell her parents that he'd been here. He deserved any punishment he got. He turned to the door. Opened it. Was halfway through, when Ginny ordered him, again: "wait!".

He waited.

"Can you…?" she blushed, looking down at the floor. "Can you fix my hair, too?"

He turned back around to face her, cocked his head, closed the door, inaudibly, behind him.

"Hmm," he said, considering. "Perhaps. But the only reason I was able to get the dye to take to begin with was because you were calm. Don't ask me why; something about that hair-dye spell seems to be dependent upon mood. You were really peaceful and calm, so I was able to work it in without any problem, but now…."

"I'm calm!" Ginny protested, indignation ringing clear in her tone even without her crossed arms, or the way she was slouched in a pout.

He raised an eyebrow in response, slightly more confident that he hadn't ruined everything, yet.

"I really am!" she cried, giving him an almost-level look.

He sighed, and walked over to her, resigned to at least trying. What could it hurt? He closed his eyes, muttering something indistinct and meaningless, as he gathered energy into his hands, approaching Ginny.

"Are you going to trust me, then?" he asked lightly. False levity, the sort that fooled most everyone. It fooled Ginny, at least.

"Just this once," she agreed, and he blinked, startled. He'd expected a reply to the effect of, "no, my eyes are on you at all times".

He wove a net of magic around his fingers, the mesh super-fine and thin as silk. He dragged it through her hair, and she shivered. To her, it probably felt as if he were gently running his fingers through her hair.

"What an odd feeling," she murmured. She giggled. "That sort of tickles! How did I _not_ wake up?"

He shrugged. He had no idea. Probably because he'd been very slow, and deliberate. Haste makes waste, as they say.

Her room was completely back to normal. Everything was back to how it had been. Harry had seen to it.

"Your hair looks better red," he confided to her. "Fiery redhead, and all. It suits you."

She frowned, and then gave a weak smile.

"You're so odd," she said, yawning. She leant back towards him, stretched, fell back towards her pillow. "Thank you, Harry," she whispered.

He wondered if there were a point in replying. "For what?" he asked, with what was becoming his signature, bitter laugh. "Intruding in your safe place like some sort of psychopath? Tormenting you with pranks the past week? Being an unsympathetic—"

"For everything," she said. "For fixing it again. I get that you sometimes don't know things that I take for granted. Basic, common courtesies. Well, now you know better. And I shall be wroth if I find you have ever done this again."

And that was that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, Ginny isn't a reincarnation, or anyone from the MCU. Having Thor as your older brother would have to rub off on you--especially if he's been reading Shakespeare. :)


	4. Knockturn Alley, and Other Adventures

After that night, Ginny at least stopped avoiding him. They weren't instant friends, and she treated him with a certain amount of wariness that only faded as he continued to spend his nights in the room he shared with Ron. And, clearly, she hadn't told her parents, or anyone else, about his intrusion and indiscretion, because he hadn't been evicted or even lectured.

He might have allowed himself to be overcome with shame and guilt, with remorse, but Ginny didn't seem to be bearing a grudge. She spoke to him when addressed, usually about mundane, trivial things. She hadn't heard of Shakespeare, either, which made Harry set himself the reminder that he would have to let her borrow his copy of _Hamlet_ when Ron had finished.

Ron, when he returned Harry's copy, was full of enthusiasm, for once, to the idea of reading, wanting to know what else Shakespeare had written. Harry asked if there was a library nearby, and Ron, frowning in clear confusion, agreed that there was.

Harry told him that Shakespeare had written a great many more plays than just _Hamlet_, and that if a library had plays by anyone at all, it would be Shakespeare.

Ginny, meanwhile, waded through _Hamlet_ with much less enthusiasm than Ron, who wanted Harry's opinions on just about everything about the play, from the ghost of Hamlet's father, to the death of Laertes. When she had finished, she yawned, and shook her head, with an attempt at a smile.

Clearly, plays were just not Ginny's thing—at least, reading them wasn't. He wondered if she'd better understand the excitement if she'd seen it performed live. But that was never going to happen, now was it?

At least he knew what to get Ron for Ron's birthday. And Christmas. If he could find a way to a muggle bookstore. He'd have to see about sneaking out into muggle London, sometime. Perhaps when they left for Diagon Alley.

It came sooner than he had expected, that trip into London.

It started off well, with him getting lost upon his arrival in _another_ punnily-named alley (this one called "Knockturn Alley", standing more or less parallel to Diagon). He'd had the lovely opportunity to spy on the Malfoys, who were worried about some bill that Mr. Weasley had managed to have passed, something about illegal dark items. He was hiding in the antique cabinet near the fireplace through which he'd accidentally entered, watching with bated breath as Draco Malfoy perused the shelves. He didn't even question where Draco's mother might be. It was bad enough having just the two Malfoys in the store; something struck him as less…pathetic, more dangerous, about Lucius Malfoy, Draco's father. It put him in mind of what Ron had said last year, about the Malfoys being in Voldemort's inner circle.

What would they do if they found him here? This was not Diagon Alley; he could be anywhere in Britain right now. Clearly, this store traded in black market goods. Perhaps there was more of lawlessness about it even than that. The "Hand of Glory" artefact suggested that the owner did not bear any moral objections to the idea of theft. Perhaps he wouldn't object to murder, either. And there would be no point in using the invisibility cloak if Malfoy opened the cabinet, his breathing alone would give him away, the way his presence disrupted the air around him. And that was if Malfoy didn't reach into his hiding place, himself….

Harry was grateful when the Malfoys left, and the store owner, and he was out in sunshine, and then Hagrid led him back to Diagon Alley, which had never looked as welcoming.

Fred and George were jealous of his experience, which was a rather irrational reaction, but then, they hadn't seen the dank dingy nastiness that was Knockturn Alley. He had no inclination of returning there, ever.

He'd never felt quite as self-conscious about his newfound wealth as when he'd ridden the Gringotts cart with Mrs. Weasley to his vault, _after_ stopping at the Weasley's account, and had had to hastily shovel coins into his bag. How much did he have? He didn't even know _that_. He just wanted to ensure he had sufficient funds to pay for his school supplies, and a bit more, besides. He wanted to buy some rather muggle items for some of his friends, after all, and now was his only chance. If all else failed, perhaps he could appeal to McGonagall. While worthless at avoiding situations that might get her students killed, she _did_ seem to have some ability to find ways of procuring even muggle supplies to her students. She'd helped him, last year….

He still wanted to see whether or not he could find a means to London, however.

But first, of course, they had to buy school supplies. He kept a lookout anyway, to see if he might escape unnoticed, but Mrs. Weasley went off to the Apothecary to get potions supplies, and Mr. Weasley ushered them towards Flourish and Blotts. Between the two of them, they managed to (accidentally) keep him well in sight.

Flourish and Blotts managed to be even more of a disaster than his first ever journey via floo powder. He decided, then and there, that he loathed Gilderoy Lockhart. Not only was the man an idiot, but it seemed that, this year at least, Harry would be a constant target for his stupidity. What with how he was the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, and all.

Harry was used to sitting quietly in a corner, making no noise, and pretending that he didn't exist. If he hadn't had that brief period of grace between his stay at the Dursleys, and coming to Diagon Alley, he might have snapped—like a wild animal—and gone after whomever was threatening him.

Fortunately for Lockhart, Harry'd spent the last two weeks in a period of more or less calm. This meant that when Lockhart called the attention of the photographer for the _Daily Prophet_ ("Together, you and I are worth the front page"), announcing that he'd been chosen to fill the vacancy in the Hogwarts staff (Harry fervently hoped that there _were_ a curse on the position), and given Harry a stack of autographed copies of all his books (which were also, naturally, the required texts for his course) free of charge, Harry settled for glaring at him, and storming into the store.

He knew that the fact that they were autographed served also as a sort of proof of purchase, which meant that he could shove them off on someone else. He owed Ginny, so he shoved the complete signed works of Lockhart into her cauldron, ignoring her wide-eyed protests.

"Yes, well, I owe you," he snapped, and she started, and then frowned. She was carrying the course books with casual ease in a second-hand cauldron, as her father hurried about, gathering second-hand textbooks from what seemed to be sheer memory—having done it this many times before.

"But—but Harry, I _can't_—" Ginny protested, and Harry glowered at her. He was not in the mood for this at all.

"Really. Well, if you don't want those books, then I am going to _burn_ them, the first chance that I get. I'd rather buy a set of his books, even if it mean he profits from them, then make do with books that I _know_ he has touched. Take them, or I can burn them, later. Personally, since you'll have to suffer him, I think you should take me up on my offer. It seems a bit of a waste otherwise, don't you think?"

Before she could make her response, he stormed off, shoving books into a carrying hamper without paying them that much attention. He didn't need that many textbooks this time, thankfully—

What was that ruckus? He hurried over to where the commotion was coming from, leaning over the balcony of the store to see a familiar red-headed man standing near Ginny with her cauldron of used books. Nearby stood a haughty, younger man, with long, silvery-blonde hair, his head tilted back so that he could look down his nose at Mr. Weasley. In his hands, he clutched a faded copy of what Harry recognised as a first year Transfiguration textbook. It was old, and obviously worn, with the corners of the binding fraying and torn.

He knew that the Malfoys thought too highly of themselves to ever consider buying second-hand goods, which meant that this was actually Ginny's book, and he'd taken it from her cauldron, as if to flaunt how little respect he had for the Weasleys, for their personal possessions, for their illusions of protection, of privacy, of property.

He considered the merits of sliding through the railing, to come to her defence. He doubted that the drop would hurt him very much. Hermione had recovered from a fall of only slightly lesser height. He felt he perhaps owed it to Ginny, to defend her. His fists clenched, as he considered what he ought to do.

"I think you and I have different opinions about what is considered a disgrace to the name of wizard," Arthur Weasley said.

Ginny looked around, frantical, and caught sight of Harry. Her gaze locked upon him. He almost felt the accusation in it, although, this time, he'd done nothing wrong. His fists clenched even more tightly. He made for the stairs, instead. Now was a bad time to call attention to himself.

"Famous Harry Potter. Can't even go to a _bookstore_ without getting mobbed. I bet you loved _that_, didn't you?"

Of course. Where the scum of the earth was, his spawn wouldn't be far behind.

"I suggest you move, Malfoy," Harry said, with deadly quiet. Malfoy scoffed. Harry stood utterly still. He was two jibes away from casting a spell that he knew he'd regret later. Maybe _incendio_, or _confringo_, or something equally fun and dangerous.

"Move," he said again, his voice flat, and Malfoy gave a nervous little laugh. If Harry had been possessed of hackles, they would have risen at this response. He shoved Malfoy forcefully to the side, and made his way to the area of conflict just as it came to blows.

Then Hagrid was there, and Mrs. Weasley, and a woman with hair longer and more silvery than Lucius Malfoy's, who deigned Arthur Weasley a look of great condescension, before gently pulling her husband to his feet.

"Take your textbook, then," hissed Lucius Malfoy, who had somehow clung to the thing, despite all that. "It's the best your father can give you—"

"No, Arthur!" Molly Weasley cried, as Arthur strained against her hold, lunging forwards suddenly. Lucius Malfoy's eyes glinted in triumph.

"Come along, Draco. Perhaps we can find a store with more…discernment in its choice of clientele."

Draco Malfoy smirked at the lot of them, and flounced off.

"Are you alright, Mr. Weasley?" Harry asked.

"I can't believe you! How old are you, five? Fighting like a muggle—brawling, of all things, in a crowded bookstore! What would Lockhart say?" she asked, in despair.

"He's _thrilled_," said Fred, appearing out of nowhere. "I overheard him telling that cameraman, asking if he could work it into his story, somehow. Just be glad Skeeter wasn't here, Mum."

Ginny looked at Harry, and Harry looked at Ginny.

"Very sorry it took me so long to arrive," Harry said. A quick glance around revealed that Fred had vanished again, and none of the other Weasleys—except for Mrs. and Mr. Weasley (and Ginny) were to be seen. Where did they all go? Well, this _was_ a rather large store.

"I have all of my books," Harry said. "I'll just pay for them, and go out for some fresh air. Do you mind if Ginny comes, too? I think recent events might have…shaken her up a bit."

Ginny glared at him from beneath her bangs, which Harry still considered progress to how she was before, when he'd first arrived at The Burrow.

"What? No, we can pay for her books, you're right. Thank you, Harry, she does look a bit…."

Harry brought his books up to the checkout, and returned a few minutes later to where Ginny stood, with arms folded, and eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"I think I owe you a bit. I've been thinking that I could buy you something."

"You can't _buy_ my friendship, Harry Potter," Ginny said, eyes narrowing still further. "And I don't do charity."

"Then think of it as a fun adventure, Ginny. There's something I've been wondering about."

He hefted the books in the enchanted satchel the witch had given him at checkout. Its feather-light charm was probably the only reason the satchel hadn't burst open with all the heavy books inside. It might be the only reason normal wizards could do all of their shopping in one trip.

Since he'd gone behind her back and asked her parents for permission, Ginny seemed to think that she had no choice but to follow Harry back out into Diagon Alley, scowling deeply.

"Where are we going?" she snapped.

Harry pointed, and Ginny's eyes widened. She forgot to be cross with him when she spoke next, revealing the latent shyness underlying her show of anger. "Harry, you _can't_," she said.

"People keep telling me that," he said, as he walked down the street, turning back to make sure she was following.

"But Harry, wands are _expensive_," she protested. "I know my parents were planning to—"

"Give you a hand-me-down?" Harry completed. "Yes, I know. Ron has Charlie's old wand, and if you Weasleys weren't all so proud, I'd buy _him_ a new wand, too. You don't want to go into a magical education with the setback of using a wand that hasn't chosen you. I suspect that's half of Neville's trouble. Or at least, I keep telling him it is."

He was quite pleased with himself for that fact, and he had the sense that Ginny would know better than to share it. Even if she did, who would believe her?

"At any rate, if you're that bothered by it, I might say that there is an entirely selfish reason for this: I want to know what it looks like when someone _else_ finds whichever wand they were destined to wield. And to hear whatever Ollivander has to tell you."

"That's not payment!" Ginny said, her voice shrill, and probably at least two octaves higher than it usually was. He winced. He had slightly sensitive hearing, owing to the Dursleys. And possibly other things, who knew? He just smiled, and turned to face her, pulling open the door with a bow.

"After you," he said. She huffed, and stormed inside. Harry followed soon thereafter.

"Ah. Harry Potter. Did something happen to your old wand?" asked a familiar voice from the gloom. Ollivander appeared, ghosting out of the shadows. Ginny jumped.

In response, Harry pulled the phoenix feather wand from his pocket, and brandished it in a flurry of red sparks. He frowned at them. He wasn't _Thor_.

"Ah, yes. Holly and phoenix feather. Twelve inches. I hope it has been serving you well." Harry nodded, and exhaled sharply as Ollivander redirected his attention to Ginny.

"And who is this? A Weasley, hmm? The youngest, the girl."

"Ginny Weasley, sir," said Ginny, back to being meek and mild. She squirmed in her discomfiture under his gaze. Then the tape measure appeared, and began measuring everything about her. Measuring her magic, measuring her aptitudes, he could see it now. Perhaps some of those measurements ended up being irrelevant, but they would help Ollivander to pick out materials, to sort through wands.

"And which is your wand hand?" he asked, as the measure took the length of her left forearm.

"Er—right!" she cried. He only raised his eyebrows at the odd pause in the answer to what seemed an ordinary question. He bustled off to the shelves, occasionally glancing back at the tape measure. Probably, it was mentally transmitting whatever measurements it found, somehow. Either that, or he knew _just_ when to glance up, to see what was being measured, and what the results.

"Here. Try this one. Hazel and dragon heartstring. Eleven inches. Give it a try—"

But, as with Harry, he snatched it out of her hands before she could do anything, reaching into another box to pull out another wand. "No, no, that won't do at all."

He glanced at the tape measure. "How about this one? Unicorn hair and yew, a rather odd combination. Ten inches—"

The front window exploded, and Harry smiled, despite having to duck flying glass. Ginny's hands rose to her mouth in undisguised horror. She didn't react when Ollivander tried to hand her the next wand, but he _was_ able to gently prise open her hands to remove the previous one.

Harry turned to the window, considered.

"_Reparo_," he decided. The window obligingly knitted itself back together, and Ginny thawed.

"Ah, yes, yes, I think that's part of the problem," Ollivander mused to himself. "How about this one? Hazel and phoenix feather, fourteen inches?"

He apparently felt that that one wasn't worth giving a shot, taking it from her as she raised her hand. She began to look sullen.

"Yes, yes. A bit much, perhaps," Ollivander said, as Harry watched him intently. "Hmm. An odd balance we need to strike here. Hmm. How about this one? Yew and phoenix feather, ten inches. I don't expect—"

Ginny frowned down at the wand, which refused to do anything.

Ollivander considered, and then wandered farther afield. Harry took the opportunity, after glancing at Ginny, to follow him.

"I'm paying for the wand," he said, deciding that time was of the essence, and that there was no sense beating around the bush. "Don't tell Ginny how much it costs."

He shoved ten galleons at Ollivander, whose eyebrows rose even as the rest of his face stayed blank. "If it costs more that ten galleons, for the wand and for your silence, let me know that. But _don't_ tell her. The Weasleys are ridiculous about all of this."

There was something to be said for watching this process. Harry was no longer seething, or itching to strangle Draco Malfoy. He wondered if it were this entertaining to watch _everyone_ find their best-suited wand.

* * *

Half an hour or so later, Ginny had finally found it. The total price of wand and Ollivander's silence came to twelve galleons. He wondered how much each cost, but resigned himself to never knowing. Ginny seemed in a much better mood, and was politer to him now that she had a wand of her own. She beamed, looking as if she wanted to try out every spell she'd ever heard used before. He hoped she'd didn't remember _servo stellas_.

They wandered about the Alley for a while, and stopped at Florean Fortescue's Old-Fashioned Ice Cream Parlour. She seemed to think that it was asking too much of Harry to get anything but a vanilla cone. Harry didn't push his luck. He remembered last year's disastrous trip to the zoo, and ordered one with chocolate chips and peanuts. It was pretty good. He maintained that Ginny was being utterly boring, but she laughed and rolled her eyes.

After that, he decided it was time to try and find his way into London proper. To her credit, when he told her of his plan, Ginny just pressed her lips tightly together, and nodded. They asked a few patrons of the Leaky Cauldron if they knew of any muggle bookstores, and then passed out into London. To Harry's lasting surprise, Ginny knew better than to step out into the middle of traffic, obeyed traffic signals without problem, and could follow directions.

They found the bookstore, and Harry left with a few gifts for his friends, a list of other locations, and a mail order form or two.

They returned to Diagon Alley, and returned to wandering around. Mrs. Weasley found them a few minutes later. She looked rather alarmed, but in altogether good spirits.

Harry briefly contemplated just how long it was liable to have taken for her to find all of the books for _everyone_ attending Hogwarts. There were the new course books for Fred, George, Percy, and Ron, as well as all of the first year textbooks for Ginny. It was probably a lot to keep track of. Harry'd been lucky, that way. Although…there were a lot of other shops she probably also had had to stop at. Madam Malkin's, for one, and whatever shop sold supplies for pets. Harry should probably go there, himself.

Mrs. Weasley seemed altogether in a better mood after she'd calmed down from Arthur Weasley's fight. She smiled when she saw how much happier Ginny was, and nodded her thanks and silent approval to Harry.

She probably would feel a bit differently when she learnt that he'd gone behind her back, but for now, Harry basked in the temporary reprieve. He knew that good things don't last.


	5. The Sealed Barrier

Over the next few days, Harry seemed to feel obligated to go back over the events in Diagon Alley, and try to figure out where Ron was, and why he hadn't been there to stop Harry from doing something inordinately stupid concerning Malfoy.

The answer was both surprising and somewhat gratifying: Ron was off doing his own thing, because he trusted Harry enough not to screw things up. He'd decided to give Harry his personal space, as Harry had asked all along.

Ron had been there, when they'd first arrived at Flourish and Blotts, to prevent Harry from attacking Lockhart, and somehow, perhaps by the mere expression on Harry's face, he'd known to give him space and time alone. The oddest thing was that, instead of scouring the bookshelves the whole time, he'd gone off with Ginny to get her her wand. But Ron hadn't known to fret about that until it was too late, anyhow.

It wasn't as if Ron had _ignored_ him during his stay with the Weasleys, but he'd let him do his own thing, and Harry was grateful. He'd half-expected that his entire stay would be Ron hovering over his shoulder, asking him if he were planning on doing anything stupid (a highly hypocritical question), but Mrs. Weasley seemed to have taken that mantle upon herself, and Ron knew it. It would have still been better than Privet Drive—anything was—but this was far more pleasant than he'd anticipated. He would _miss_ The Burrow, a fact that he'd only been able to say about two other places. So there.

With this knowledge in mind, Harry set to reading this next year's textbooks, except for Lockhart's. He would read those later; he highly doubted it mattered, one way or the other, but it would be nice if he could find some inconsistencies in Lockhart's work.

As an unspoken agreement, he still set aside time to spend with the Weasleys, while he could. Percy was still Percy, and therefore to be avoided, but he and Ginny had common cause in a lack of regard for Lockhart, which was good. He had half-feared she'd take after her mum and _fancy_ him. As the Twins had put it.

Time passed quite quickly now that they were approaching a deadline, and soon it was time to go to King's Cross to catch the train to Hogwarts, and finally reunite with Hermione. He'd written a letter to her explaining about Dobby's visit, and why he hadn't replied to her letter, but had, thus far, received no reply. He had to hope that nothing had happened to her, and cursed Dobby yet again for his friends' supposed silence.

But September First came soon enough, and, after conferring for half the night with his mother, particularly concerning the subject of Lockhart, he was as ready for the new year as he was going to be. And indeed, everything went just fine, until his trolley crashed into the suddenly solid brick wall barring access to Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters.

He took stock. He was all alone, with the Weasleys trapped with everyone else on the other side of the barrier. Not that they'd have cause to notice he was missing until it was too late; thanks to the truly hectic arrangements of the Weasleys, they were already late, on the verge of missing the train.

He glared at the barrier, as if to intimidate it into submission. Astoundingly, it did not yield.

But he was not defeated _that_ easily. He opened the familiar seventh sense to analyse what he could of how the spell on the barrier was supposed to function—was there an actual brick wall there that a spell allowed travel through, or was it the illusion of a wall covering up a hole, or portal? And then, of course, it was also necessary to determine how the barrier had been closed.

But he had to hurry—the train would leave soon, and he wasn't deluded enough to think that he was so important that they'd notice if he wasn't on it. Or that they'd delay the journey even if they _did_ notice.

People did tend not to notice him, when he didn't deliberately call attention to himself. He had mastered _that_.

And even as he analysed the makeup of that spell, he was trying to plan what to do next, what to do if he finally _did_ make it through the barricade, and trying to set aside the question of who would do this to begin with.

The spell was (and this was fairly reasonable, all things considered) one that enabled passage through the brick wall—or perhaps, not through it, but into a compressed pocket dimension. Or what seemed a bit similar. Who knew what Diagon Alley was, but Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters was of a kind with it: a fold in space, compressed space, a pocket dimension conjoining two worlds—who knew?

It was forgotten space, and not a pocket dimension—the barrier allowed passage through the wall, not into another (albeit minuscule) dimension. That was it. Then, all he needed to do was to bore through the wall, or re-establish a similar spell to allow himself passage. And then what?

He'd decide that on the other side of the wall. Whoever had closed the barrier had not accounted for whom they were trying to block (and it could only be he; all the others had made it through fine, someone had watched and waited for _him_ particularly). He knew that he could cut through. And that was probably the operative word: cut.

He thought of swords, thought of lasers, thought of spells that shot beams of light. He only needed enough space for himself, and if he had to cut through a brick wall, and that was difficult to repair, well, it was on the head of whomever had tried to shut him out.

He glanced around the station, but all about, people were bustling, and paying him little heed. Hedwig was keeping sensibly silent, watching him with patient eyes. He drew the wand from the holder he'd bought at Diagon Alley, and paused again, to think. There was no other way around it; he didn't know any wizarding spells precise enough to cut through a brick wall. At the same time, the wand was the only way he could think of to focus magic into a concentrated beam. He'd have to use the _other_ sort of magic, as he usually thought of it.

Let's just hope this worked. He walked up to the wall, and thought hard. Focus. Energy. Desire. No ambient energy to draw on; he'd have to use his own reserves. He bent down to trace a rectangular arch into the wall, starting at the floor, and heading up. Unlike in movies, the wall didn't collapse once he'd created his rectangle-arch. But he _had_ bored through the wall; he was sure of it. The gap he'd made was as thin as a hair—super-concentrated, because he'd known that he could do that with the added precision afforded by the wand.

He'd omitted the base of his arch, of course. He finished his rectangle, and glanced around. Still no one watching. He turned sideways, and shuffled crabwise to the makeshift doorway. He pushed gently on the right hand side, and it spun like a sluggish revolving door. He pushed at the wall from the other side, until it flipped back to its original position, but did nothing more to fix the wall. And only then did he turn back to the station.

People were still waving and crying and sending off their children. No one had noticed him. It wasn't time for them to leave through the barrier yet—it might have opened when the first person had come through, but by then, the Hogwarts Express would have been out of sight, and right now, he could see the last of the cars rolling into the distance. Too far for something stupid like jumping. But….

He opened Hedwig's cage, and his expression probably said more to her than his words. Or maybe not. Hedwig was a very smart owl.

"Can you keep up with the train, do you suppose? If you can, catch up to me. If you can't…go to Hogwarts, and I'll meet you there."

She hooted, nipped his finger, and flew off, and Harry shrank the cage to a more manageable size, and then set the trunk down on the ground, opening it to remove the broomstick Professor McGonagall had bought him last year. He knew he was a good flier. He knew that he could catch up to the train. Youngest Seeker in a century, and all. And he knew that the train had windows, and Ron and Hermione were sure to be wondering where he was. Or, at least, he _hoped_—

He killed off that line of thought before it could become too dangerous, closing the trunk, securing it, and grabbing onto it with one hand, he forced the loop of Hedwig's birdcage over the handle of the broom, before him, sliding it down until it wouldn't affect steering too much. If all else failed, he had little use of the birdcage during the school year, and he might be able to convince someone that it was a necessity at the Dursleys in time to replace it.

He kicked off, and flew, at the best speed the Nimbus Two Thousand could muster, after the train.

This was not his sort of thing. It was Thor's. He did _not_ like the stakes attached to his success at this juncture, or how likely it was that either McGonagall would expel him, or he'd be crushed by the train, or spotted, or something. But he kept on his course, occasionally dipping down to look into cars as he passed them. The red hair of the Weasley clan couldn't be _that_ easy to miss.

And despite it all, he couldn't deny that he still felt safer, here in the sky, than he had at any point at the Dursleys. It felt _right_, inexplicably.

He paused as he began to pass another window. Red hair. Someone else with brown hair. Hmm. Could be.

He knocked against the window of the compartment, and the two of them started, and then Hermione's gaze shot to the window, and Ron's followed hers. He strode over to the window, and flung it open with some force.

"_Harry_!" he cried. His expression was full of disapproval. His arms were folded. He looked the part of the lecturing parent, and Harry rolled his eyes, despite himself.

"Not _my_ first choice," he said, lightly, gripping onto the window. "I think we have a bit of a reversal of roles, here. You should have told me how risky this was."

He grabbed hold of the window with the hand he had been using to steer, well aware that as the train picked up speed, the force of its momentum would probably be…a bit problematic for him. Maybe.

Just how durable were the bodies of wizards, anyway? Hagrid had thought it absurd that a "mere" car crash could kill James Potter….

He handed through Hedwig's shrunken cage, which Ron took with a sigh, and a reproachful frown. Harry barely kept control of the broom. Nimbus Two Thousands were not meant to be steered without _any_ hands, but, being designed for quidditch players, and quidditch being the sport it was, it didn't immediately go off course, either.

Harry wasted no time in grabbing hold of the ledge of the window, again, this time carefully angling the broom so that it pointed through the window, and he was able to slide off, through the window, and brace it so that it didn't immediately fall out and be lost. Privately, he felt that this was a much more impressive feat than merely catching a remembrall after a hundred foot dive, or whatever.

Hermione's hands were at her mouth, her eyes very wide. She looked either horrified or terrified.

Ron was still about to nag him for recklessness. Harry sighed, and huffed, and made sure that the broom handle was well and truly wedged, at an angle so that his trunk couldn't just decide to slide off.

"Oh, lay off, Ron. I told you this was _not my first choice_. It wasn't even my second or third choice, either. But I missed the train—through no fault of my own, I might add—and I had to catch up _somehow_. Someone closed the barrier on me. If this is Dobby trying to keep me from Hogwarts again—"

He paused. It could very well be Dobby, come to that, House-elf magic was different from wizarding magic, but could evidently be made to mimic it, or he wouldn't have received his notice from the Improper Use of Magic Office.

"First Quirrell, now a house-elf!" he cried, throwing up his hands in frustration. "Am I allowed no _rest_?"

Ron was considering fretting over him now. His brows were starting to knit together, and his arms had shifted slightly.

"Oh, Harry, that was so dangerous!" Hermione squealed. "You could have been—"

"Yes, yes, I know," Harry said, waving a hand to bat aside her concerns. "There are a hundred ways I could have just died, but it's only slightly more dangerous than quidditch—"

"Have I not said before that you should not make light of your own demise—?" Ron interjected. Harry ignored him to talk over him.

"—and I didn't have much choice. You know that there were Death Eaters on the platform. Suppose I'd been kidnapped, or killed? I don't know enough spells to properly defend myself, now do I? Now, you could say 'but there were all those _non_-Death Eaters. They wouldn't have dared to try anything!'—" Hermione shut her mouth with a snap, showing that that was, in fact, what she'd been on the verge of saying.

"Well, probably not at that point then, but they certainly would have had plenty of time if I'd done something stupid like, say, sent Hedwig off to Hogwarts and waited behind on the platform, or, perhaps worse, London. It takes six hours for the train to reach Hogwarts, right? Do you think Hedwig is faster? I'd have had no way to send for any sort of help at all, then. And I didn't see your parents on the platform, Ron; perhaps they were searching for me; perhaps in their distraction, they assumed that I'd boarded when they weren't looking—I don't know. And do you really think I can identify…_most_ of You-Know-Who's men on sight? There were risks involved, no matter _what_ I did. At least I'm _good_ at flying, and I could control _that_."

Hermione blinked, gaping at him. She'd rarely heard him give such long rants before. In fact, the last one he'd given had probably been the one where he'd explained his reasons for going after the Stone before Quirrell could get it.

"What would you have done?" he asked, glancing at the Nimbus Two Thousand again, just to make sure it hadn't moved. Hermione wilted.

"I—I suppose I would have sent Hedwig to Professor McGonagall," she said, voice very small. Harry rounded on Ron. Ron's mouth twitched, as if he were trying not to smile.

"Probably something not half as thought out or clever as what you did. Which is not to say that what you did was clever or well thought out."

That seemed to be exactly what he was saying.

"You're not my _mother_, Ron," Harry reminded him. "You don't have to disapprove just because what I did could have been dangerous."

"It _was_ very impressive," Ron admitted, clearly torn. Hermione glared at him.

"Don't encourage him, Ron," she hissed. Then she sighed, sagging. "Well, I suppose all's well that ends well. But I don't know how you're going to get your trunk inside…."

Harry shrugged. "I assume that they'll be able to get it when we arrive at the station. I just have to make sure it doesn't fall off. It's hanging over the back of the broom."

Hermione, as if incredulous, went over to the window to peer out to see that the trunk had slid down towards the window. If broomsticks weren't made to be insanely durable, given the nature of quidditch matches, she would have been astonished that it hadn't already broken.

"That will never do," she said, rolling up her sleeves and peering out the window. "Harry, can you grab onto the handle? And Ron, grab onto the broom so that it isn't lost. I'm going to try something."

Harry took a glance at her set expression, and sighed, climbing half out the window to grab hold of his trunk. He hefted it up, and Ron pulled the Nimbus Two Thousand out from its position stuck through the window. Harry decided that, if all else failed, he could just keep one hand clamped over the handle for the rest of the trip. Except when he had to change into his Hogwarts robes. How was he going to do that?

"_Mundum aperio_!" Hermione cried, pointing out the window.

Harry considered asking her what she had just done, and then decided that, based on the Latin alone, he didn't want to know. Besides, he was too busy concentrating on keeping his hand attached to his arm. Some force seemed to be trying to separate them.

"You should be able to pull it through the wall, now," Hermione said happily, seeming unaware of the excruciating pain in his hand. It was only temporary, as he reminded himself. Nothing like that torture curse Quirrell had used, or—

To his surprise, he was able to pull the trunk _through_ the wall of the train, without damaging it. His hand ceased from its complaints when safely in the train.

"I was studying about the way that the barrier at Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters was created," Hermione gushed. "Apparently, it distorts space by—"

"Thank you, Hermione. Although I think I may have dislocated my wrist. What did that spell do? Create some sort of intra-universal portal? A pocket dimension? It felt as if my hand were being cut off, so—"

Hermione hung her head. Harry rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on. I'm not saying that it wasn't a brilliant piece of magic, and that you didn't do extremely well. I'm just questioning the safety of—"

Hedwig flew in at just that moment, with a reproachful hoot, and Harry turned to Ron, who picked up the cage and held it out to Harry. Hedwig flew in, with great dignity, and Harry closed the door to her cage, and set to trying to station his trunk in the overhead rack as he had the year previous.

"Very well done, Hermione," he said. "Thank you. I suppose that it's just as well that I don't know how that spell works."

"If you'd have let me finish, I was _going_ to say that it's an attempted modification of the spell that allows passage through Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters. I was reading about its history in the library, and then I bought a few books on the subject of advanced transfiguration, and polystate matter, and it seemed—"

"You're telling me that that was just an experiment?" Harry demanded, shaking his head. He reminded himself that he hardly had room to talk. Life at the Dursleys had been full of just that—experimental magic—the last two years. But even still….

"No!" Hermione hastily interjected. "It's a quasi-prototypal version of the spell—the real thing isn't recorded anywhere in case someone sabotaged it—"

"Some good that did—" Harry muttered.

"—but some of the earlier versions of the spell that it improved upon _were_."

"And did it say why they weren't used any longer?" Harry grumbled.

Hermione hesitated, and he sighed, shaking his head, but resigned himself to the situation. He didn't seem to have been permanently harmed; his wrist was already starting to recover, and he no longer had to worry about losing any of his possessions whether by destruction, or by their just falling out. "Well, all's well that ends well," he said, shrugging, and Hermione smiled at the words come back to her.

Harry put away the trunk, and they began catching up on their summers. For instance, Hermione hadn't responded to Harry's letters because she'd been traveling with her parents. They planned to make the most of the time that Hermione spent at home by trying new things, and exploring new places with her. They'd brainstormed all the places she'd always wanted to see, and then saw what of those were feasible for this summer's vacation. It worked out well enough. They were considering going to France next summer. Hermione seemed thrilled at the prospect.

In exchange for stories about her adventures in London (mostly), and Cornwall (huh?), Harry told her about his rather miserable last week at the Dursleys, including the worst birthday of his life thus far (but knowing the Dursleys, his thirteenth birthday would find a way to be even _worse_). Her hands again flew to cover her mouth, eyes brimming with tears, as he finished telling her about Dobby's mysterious warnings, and moved on to his punishment of starvation-cum-isolation, locked up in the smallest bedroom, with bars on his windows.

"Surely, they couldn't have—I mean, where would they have even _found_ bars—?" Hermione favoured outright incredulity of what he was saying, but Ron sighed, looking down, seeming pensive.

"This is no mere exaggeration—I saw it myself," he said, voice level and balanced in the manner of a sword. Ouch.

Hermione blinked and turned back to Harry, looking mighty subdued.

"But I spent the rest of the summer with the Weasleys, so it's alright," Harry said, skipping over the worst of it. What was the point? Ron glanced his way, as if questioning why he'd possibly leave something like that out, but he only glanced in Ron's direction to ensure his silence, and went on to tell of meeting Lockhart in Diagon Alley, and what Malfoy had been doing in Borgin & Burke's.

Malfoy appeared just then, as if summoned by the mention, and Harry leapt to his feet, far too harassed and on edge to put up with Malfoy's nonsense.

"Where's your girlfriend, Potty? Did she abandon you? Of course, being a little blood traitor as she is, I wouldn't be surprised if she—"

"I suggest you leave _now_, Malfoy," Harry snapped.

"What's the matter? Did I hit a nerve?"

"If you are speaking of my sister, then the answer is most likely _yes_. And you might not be glad of that," Ron said. He seemed eager to vent some of his recent ill humour on Malfoy, who paled, perhaps remembering the incident in the Forbidden Forest last year. He had a new wand, of course, but even a Malfoy couldn't just go through wands as if they were candy. His eyes narrowed, however (he must not look weak), and he attempted to stare Ron down. Ron being Ron, the attempt failed.

Of course, Crabbe and Goyle were also there. For once, even Harry might welcome a fight. There was too much on his mind, and he was always thinking, always planning, always trying to think through all of his problems. If it were possible to sprain your brain, he was sure he would have managed it by now. Gryffindor had a point: sometimes, it was best to just _take action_.

Not that he would ever tell Thor that. If he ever encountered him.

Hermione sank down into the bench behind him, head in her hands. Harry glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

"This is your last chance," said Ron. "I suggest you take it."

Crabbe and Goyle cracked their knuckles together in response, and Malfoy scoffed.

"_Incendio_," Harry said, pointing at Malfoy, whose eyes widened, before casting a quick shield charm, eyes narrowing.

"_Petrificus Totalus_," Hermione said, somehow managing to sound haughty and reproachful.

Malfoy fell to the ground, arms and legs seemingly pinned to his sides. Harry sighed, but decided to limit himself to acceptable jinxes. Crabbe and Goyle had never been set on fire anyway, that he knew of. That took the vindictive pleasure out of it.

Ron rammed whichever of them had the bowl cut hair, Ron's shoulder crashing into the boy's bulk, and driving him back into the corridor. Harry took a leaf out of Hermione's book, and used the Full-Body Bind, which earned him a sharp nod of approval. Then, they set to rolling the three out into the corridor. For good measure, they rolled them down the hall. Harry occasionally abandoned his rolling job to open the occasional compartment, looking for one that looked as if it might have been the one that Malfoy had come from. But at last, he just gave up, and the two of them returned back to their own compartment, where Hermione waited with folded arms.

She was spending too much time with Ron.

"You didn't even give him a chance to—"

"Hermione, you know as well as I what he would have said. I'm still rather _angry_ with him over what he said when we crossed paths at Flourish and Blotts. So, no, he hasn't miraculously become a decent person over the summer, Hermione."

"But…! _Ron_—!"

"Family feud," Harry interrupted, before she could get any further. Hermione scowled, but took the hint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget the Star Preserver Spell (_servo stellas_) or the World Opener Spell (_mundum aperio_). They both get mentioned, and reappear, later. The Star Preserver Spell more than the World Opener, naturally. ;)


	6. A Period of Rest

When they arrived at Hogwarts, and had disembarked from the train, almost the very first thing that happened was that Snape, of all people, cornered and collared him, claiming that he had been spotted by at the least some of his fellow students, who had reported him riding a broom onto the train. That was thoroughly unfair. Harry crossed his arms, and tried to think of a better response than "prove it".

"Might I ask who it was that made this claim?" he asked mildly. "Malfoy and I _do_ have a bit of a rivalry, and I would not put it past him—"

"My sources were quite certain as to what they saw," Snape's eyes glittered with malice as he spoke. "Detention, I think, and perhaps you should—"

"Severus, what is the meaning of this?" McGonagall interrupted, on her way to the door to give her usual introductory speech to the new students.

"Detention, Potter," said Snape in a low voice. "And be glad it isn't worse. You could have been seen, and that is _illegal_."

And he swept off without further explanation.

McGonagall, of course, managed to have missed it. Harry didn't care. He'd got detention before even the first day for merely refusing to be left behind. That probably counted as a portent as to how the rest of the year would pass. He kicked at the floor, twice, to vent some of his frustration in a less-than-obvious way, and then strode off to join a frowning Ron at the Gryffindor table.

They waited while the students finished crossing the lake, and filed into the hall, and McGonagall gave her lecture. The resident ghosts of Hogwarts swept into the hall, taking their various stations at their preferred tables around the room. Harry knew that there were more ghosts than those present now; not all of them came to the first feast, and some of them kept to themselves so much that they were more rumour than presence. Last year, he'd been too preoccupied to notice their presence at his own sorting (fancy missing something like that!). The House ghost, Sir Nick, was practically bouncing with excitement. It made his head wobble on his mostly severed neck, which in turn meant that most of Gryffindor House studiously avoided looking at him. He'd been helpful enough to them last year, but it didn't make it any less disconcerting….

Harry listened with less enthusiasm to the Hat's new song than he had the year previous. As always, there was just too much to think on. House-elves, closed barriers, detention….

The sorting.

The first new Gryffindor was a small, excitable boy named Colin Creevey. In the months to come, Harry would come to resent the constant hero worship and adulation that oozed incessantly from the younger boy, but their acquaintance started amicably enough. He introduced himself, and said something about cameras, and then shut up when Percy leveled a reproachful stare at him.

There were few other recognisable names for Harry to listen for, which meant that his mind naturally gravitated towards analysing more important matters. But it snapped back to the moment, when "Weasley, Ginevra" was called. _Ginevra_? _That_ was Ginny's full name?

The Hat hesitated for a few seconds, as it had with Ron (who seemed to be holding his breath), before crying "Gryffindor!".

A rather rattled-looking Ginny stumbled over to a seat next to Ron, with a quick, tired smile around the table. Then, Dumbledore stood, to give the usual speech, which detoured into an introduction for the most flamboyant Hogwarts professor yet. Dressed in his robes of forget-me-not blue, with his hat set at a jaunty angle, and a winning smile on his lips…. Harry grabbed hold of a butter knife, and pretended that it was acceptable in polite society to murder someone as infuriating as Lockhart. He wondered how he'd get through this year.

That was _before_ the "Harry Potter fan club" incident, the next day, back when the world seemed more or less reasonable, and was continuing as it had.

Oh, and he had a detention to consider. To make matter worse, Lockhart had somehow managed to shift the detention to be with him, instead of with Snape. Judging by Snape's triumphant smirk, he realised that Harry would prefer a detention with him to one with Lockhart.

And Colin Creevey had requested a signed photograph with Harry, which Harry might have been willing to give him, had he been able to set the terms, but no, Lockhart had intervened, and given him a "two-for-one" deal. And then Malfoy had come by….

Harry found himself in a bad humour more swiftly than the previous year. This year seemed determined to be a series of setbacks, starting even before the year began, with Dobby's warning, continuing through the closed barrier and his ensuing detention, and now there was a whole year of Creevey and Lockhart to look forward to.

Thankfully, Hagrid, Ron, and Ginny were all quite as dismissive of Lockhart as Harry was. His first visit with Hagrid was preceded with Hagrid practically driving the man off, as he called out offers to help Hagrid do his duties as gamekeeper more effectively.

"Right fraud, he is," Hagrid said, summing it up quite succinctly. Hermione pouted, insisting that he was a great man whom they didn't understand. In her eyes, anyone who had written so many books must be amazing. Or, as Ron had pointed out when they pulled out their schedules the first day, "Why have you put hearts next to Lockhart's classes?"

Her blush had served as sufficient answer to that question, as well as the question of how Hermione (usually the brightest witch at school) could be taken in, especially after Lockhart's disastrous first lesson, which had amounted to all of them getting a lot of hands-on experience in doing Lockhart's job better than Lockhart could.

Ron was particularly effective at stunning the Cornish pixies, which Hermione gently picked up with a casual _wingardium leviosa_, floating them carefully back into their cages. Harry set himself the task of retrieving Neville from the chandelier without anyone being hurt. He'd finally figured out that he was alright with heights as long as he could see the ground. This meant that he didn't mind climbing, although there were few handholds.

It was the sort of thing that made you wish for wings. He at last gave it up for a lost cause, and cast a cushioning charm instead, accompanied by a reductor at the chain of the chandelier. Lockhart could repair it—if he actually had that limited degree of competence. Neville was unharmed, and joined the fray as best he could, despite Harry's subtle hints that he should keep out of it.

September 1992 was not the best month of Harry's life. He could hardly wait for the last day of the month, when he could ask his mother for some advice. As it was, his mind churned through an increasing number of problems. He was fine with his schoolwork. He was probably even doing well enough in Potions, although its professor made telling this very difficult. But the rest of it… wondering what Dobby would do next, if indeed he had closed the barrier (if he could affect the barrier, without even being seen, how much more havoc might he wreak at Hogwarts?); wondering what to do about his burgeoning "fan club", founded, naturally, by Creevey and Lockhart; and then what happened in his detention with Lockhart….

That was certainly unnerving. Detention itself was bad enough… filling out addresses for Lockhart's fan-mail, as the man himself prattled on about self-glorifying exaggerated tales of his own exploits… but then, the mysterious voice, the one that Lockhart evidently couldn't hear, speaking of murder and bloodshed and monstrous hunger….

Harry tended to lose his cool whenever sociopaths appeared, or inexplicable voices haunted him, or murder and violence came up in conversation. The confluence of all three was…not good.

Lockhart dismissed him, and he wandered off in a daze, half of a mind to find the origin of the voice, to discover whence any of this was coming, if it weren't indeed from his own head. It was far past midnight, at that point, but he was used to enduring long nights of suffering, starvation at the Dursleys, torture…elsewhere, and before even _that_….

He wandered the halls of Hogwarts, listening for that disembodied voice, but it faded away, leaving him edgy and jumpy and rather short-tempered. He did not sleep well that night, fearing a resumption of last year's nightmares.

He was already in a bad humour, therefore, tired and wary as he was, when Wood woke everyone early the next morning to go out and practice quidditch. The entire Gryffindor Quidditch Team seemed determine to pretend that their ostracism of him last year hadn't happened, but he hadn't forgotten. Still, Katie Bell and Angelina Johnson had made some attempts at mending the burnt bridges, which counted for something.

Not enough for Harry to really care when slytherin walked onto the field during the practice time that Wood had personally booked. Indeed, he might have used the opportunity to catch up on his sleep, were it not for the _reason_ that slytherin got away with booking the pitch, despite Wood's efforts: Snape's favouritism added to Malfoy buying his way onto the team.

"Why not raffle off those old brooms for the funds to pay for a new set? I expect a museum would pay a hefty price for them—"

"At least they didn't have to _buy_ their way onto the team!" Hermione cried, stomping towards Malfoy. "_They_ got in on pure _talent_!"

She pointed a finger at him, and he eyed it distastefully.

"Stay out of this, _mudblood_," Malfoy said, and that was all the further provocation Ron needed. Harry sighed. Today was just going to be one of those days, wasn't it?

The first thing that Malfoy did, with a vindictive little smirk, was disarm Ron with a spell they hadn't learnt yet, and then he broke the thing, and threw it away. It set off sparks into the grass as Harry glanced at it. Right. Malfoy probably realised that he'd crossed a line here, but perhaps….

"There. I suppose you'll have to drop out of Hogwarts, now. We all know your family can't afford—"

"_Reducto_," Harry snapped, and a cloud of dirt and grass erupted around Malfoy, covering him in dust and dirt, and hiding him from sight. Harry followed the blast of his curse, grasping Malfoy's wrist and yanking it behind him.

"Funny rumour I heard about wandlore," he said. "Namely, that wands can be fickle, and when their owners have been defeated…."

Malfoy whimpered in pain, and Harry rolled his eyes.

"Well, at any rate, I'm sure that, since you Malfoys are so rich, you won't mind buying another one."

He pried the wand out of Malfoy's fingers, and tossed it at Ron.

"You'll just have to use that one, for the time being," he told Ron, who stared at him, as if he couldn't make up his mind whether he ought to laud Harry or scold him. He followed the sparks and the beginnings of a grassfire to his old wand, picked it up, and tried to fit the pieces back together. It worked about as well as might be expected.

Harry shrugged, and sighed, and kept hold of Malfoy's wand, reminding himself to fetch some of the spellotape he had in his trunk to try to "fix" the wand.

"I would not profess such skill as to use the wand of an opponent," Ron said, by way of explanation, as Harry hauled him to his feet to march them towards the nearest place of refuge, which, as it turned out, was Hagrid's cabin.

Hermione joined them, but the rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch Team, half-angered, half-relieved to have practice canceled, retreated back to the Tower for a quick nap.

Harry, however, was wide-awake, and more worked up than he'd expected to be over Malfoy's latest tricks.

Buying his way onto the team? That was what those of wealth and power did. (_But not Tony Stark, hmm? Or the Royal Family of Asgard…no, it takes a certain sort of individual…_) Malfoy calling Hermione a mudblood just reminded Harry of their first meeting, back at Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.

But to know that Ron's family was impoverished, and to add the weight of paying for a wand to their already tight finances? Harry recognised the attempt at symmetry, but wands were expensive, and the drain on their budgets was thus far from equivalent.

And Harry had spent half of the summer at The Burrow. He knew that the Weasleys were, as a whole, a lot of kind-hearted, generous people, who, despite little being able to afford it, had taken him in, and treated him—for the first time (in this life?) as if he were their own. Generosity of spirit, combined with a pride that resisted anything that might be construed as "charity".

For some reason, it seemed a particularly low blow.

"I don't suppose he managed to hit you with any curses?" asked Harry, shaking his head as he leant back on the stool pulled up to Hagrid's old wooden table. The three of them always sat in the same places, which saved time and attention that might be more profitably spent elsewhere than arguing over seating arrangements.

"He did not have the chance," said Ron, with a sort of dour grin. Hermione sat off to the side, looking to be about three seconds away from wringing her hands.

"What were you lot thinking, picking a fight with Malfoy?" Hagrid snapped, and Harry's eyebrow rose, despite himself, at the uncharacteristic display of temper. What prompted _that?_

"Malfoy is Malfoy," Harry shrugged, keeping his explanation deliberately vague. He just wanted to leave the subject alone and get back to thinking about how to solve this year's problems. Wasn't that what they always did at Hagrid's cabin?

"He called me some sort of a name—" Hermione began. "I don't recognise it—I don't think it's come up in my readings—"

"You wouldn't have," said Ron, still uncharacteristically sullen, himself. Because Harry had intervened (as Harry was just now realising), Ron hadn't had the chance to vent any of his completely-justified anger on Malfoy. Harry suspected that _he_, personally, had pushed both of his friends to the limits of their tolerance, or why _else_ was everyone else in the room in such a sour mood?

As if on cue, Fang approached, inserting his massive head under Harry's elbow with a whine. Harry scratched absently behind Fang's ear, and turned to face Ron, who hadn't needed the reminder.

"He called her a 'mudblood', Hagrid. It is simply a derogatory term for a muggleborn, used mostly by purebloods. It is considered highly offensive and rude for anyone to speak, and therefore, for the most part, wizarding society pretends that the word itself does not exist. Muggleborns figure out its meaning soon enough."

"But to start a fight over something so minor—"

"Oh, it's not just that," Harry said, feeling his spirits sink to match those around the table. "He broke the wand Ron inherited from his brother Charlie. I took Malfoy's wand as compensation. But Ron won't use it—even if, surely, it's much better to be using an unsuited wand that works than one that doesn't."

"Eh, I dunno," said Hagrid. "You can do a lot more harm with an unsuited wand than a broken one, sometimes. Try it, and see how it is."

"And what has _you_ in such a bad humour?" asked Harry. "Only, you usually don't scold us, especially for not doing the most reasonable thing."

Hagrid's beard twitched, and he sighed. "Well, it seems a bit less serious, now. Lockhart was by here just now, offering to help me with my job—thinks he's bigger than anyone else—"

"I'm sure that he just is trying to settle in and make friends," Hermione said, which Harry recognised as the start of her most recent passion: defending Lockhart. Let her keep going, and she'd enumerate all the amazing things he'd figured out in each of his books. That just couldn't be allowed. Better even to change the subject to something unimportant.

"Say, Hagrid, what courses did _you_ take, your third year?"

* * *

Of course, the first week wasn't a _complete_ disaster. One of the first things that happened after his arrival at Hogwarts—on the very first night—was Seamus Finnigan taking him aside, apologising profusely for his behaviour the year prior, with an awkward shuffling of feet, and swearing that he wasn't going to just disregard Harry thus again. Especially without knowing the whole story.

He went on to explain that he'd asked his mum and dad about why she'd waited until they were married to tell Seamus's father about being a witch. She'd said something to the effect of she'd worried what he might think, although she knew he wouldn't react with violence, and she was fairly sure he'd accept it, she still had feared…. It was one of those moments, where putting off the inevitable felt like never having to face it.

She'd explained this to Seamus, and then narrowed her eyes, demanding to know why he was asking all of a sudden. Harry's name had come up in Seamus's flustered explanation, and now Mrs. Finnigan was half-convinced that Harry was a rabble rouser or a trouble maker, determined to ruin her life.

"I guess I shouldn't take what me Mam says so straight," Seamus said, with a bit of a grin. "Don't worry! She won't send you hate mail!" he called back cheerily as he headed into the boys bathroom to prepare for the night.

* * *

While the first months had its ups and its downs, it seemed to have far more of the latter than the former. Harry almost wondered why he felt such fondness for Hogwarts, when it held already quite a few miserable memories for him, mostly centred around two specific professors: Professor Snape, head of Slytherin House, was one, of course. The other was the Professor-in-name-only, Gilderoy Lockhart.

The answer, when given space to think, was that it was filled with magic, and he had made his first friends here (well, technically, on the train ride here, he'd made friends with Ron, but everyone else…). To add to that, he knew that his parents had once walked these same halls, and stayed in the same dormitories.

Like the palace of his dreams, it was filled with memories both bittersweet, and good. It was the palace-on-earth, still, and it had no true contender for "home". At the Weasleys, despite their best efforts, he still always felt that he was an intruder, no matter how welcome. He fought the sense that he must do something to earn his keep, and continuously strove to help pay for his upkeep, in progressively more clever ways, that were nonetheless foiled, with a certain strict permissiveness, by the Weasley heads themselves.

The Burrow was, indeed, very different from Hogwarts. Hogwarts was _home_, or as close as he could get, with no way of accessing the palace on his own. Loki had all the secret doorways between the worlds memorised—or at least, he knew many of them, and could recognise the telltale signs of others. And Harry knew thereby that there were no doors to Asgard near, at least, none that he'd come within sensing distance of. Probably, it made sense—or everyone would have known of the Wizarding World back on Asgard (a wizard would surely have stumbled through, eventually), and it would have been, at the very least, in his background knowledge. It would not have been such a shock, then, to learn that he was a wizard. And that was assuming all of that was real.

He loved Hogwarts, despite the slytherins (especially Malfoy and Snape), despite the professors (especially Lockhart and Snape), despite the rigid curriculum when he was used to freeverse magic, and the staring from his fellow classmates, and the dangers that were always lurking _somewhere_ around the school. He hadn't forgot Dobby's warning.

He needed to remind himself of the fact that he was quite fond of Hogwarts, whenever he encountered Malfoy (who had replaced his wand with uncanny speed), or had to act out yet another scene for Lockhart from his books. (They couldn't possibly be true; he'd only had to read the first two to realise the complete illogicality of them.) Still, Ron was giving him space, and he hadn't had a repeat of last year's nightmares. That might mean that his mother had foreseen the potential danger, and had shut the nightmares out, however she had last year.

He didn't ask her when September Thirtieth came. At that point, he was too busy thinking about the coming match against Slytherin. And more than that, he was thinking of next Hallowe'en, questioning what the Deathday party would be like, barely refraining from asking his mother what she had planned for that night. Last year, she had stayed as Lily for the entire night, and told him stories of the past. Perhaps she would do the same this year?

He _did_ tell her the story of how he had agreed to go to Sir Nick's Deathday party, after Nick had saved him from detention by Filch when the latter had caught him…dripping mud on the flagstones after a rainy quidditch practice session. His mother had laughed a bit, reminiscent, telling him that Filch had always been a miserable, petty sort of man. But when he mentioned the Kwikspell letter on Filch's desk, her gaze softened with…pity?

"He is like Petunia, then. Desperately desiring magic, his envy drives him towards hatred of those who possess it," she said, with a sigh.

Jealousy, jealousy, jealousy. As if to strike home the lessons Loki had failed to learn, it seemed that everyone Harry encountered who made his life miserable was, in truth, motivated by jealousy of some sort. Dumbledore had said that Snape was jealous of his father's talent. Filch was jealous of Harry for having magic (that was a laugh, when he'd been jealous of the normal élites, back when he'd been Loki. If that were true). And now it turned out that Aunt Petunia had broken ties with her sister because she was jealous that Lily had magic, and she didn't. Perhaps that was the reason behind her idolisation of everything _normal, ordinary, boring_, as well.

But Harry was incapable of being ordinary, normal, boring. Even amongst wizards, he was unusual. And, if he had temporarily forgotten Dobby's most dire predictions, they would soon come back to the fore of his mind.


	7. The Living and the Dead

He had invited Hermione and Ron to Nick's Deathday party as well, naturally (he'd thought of it beforehand, asking Sir Nick if it would be alright if he brought friends). Sir Nick had been ecstatic at the thought of more people who could assure Sir Delaney-Podmore that he was truly terrifying.

Harry hadn't had the heart to tell him that the other two would most likely do no such thing, Ron because he was unfailingly honest, and didn't seem terribly alarmed by Sir Nick's partial decapitation, Hermione because she would, as Harry suspected he would himself, be spending most of that time observing and taking in the sights.

It was also possible that his attempts to cheer up Sir Nick by telling him he was even _more_ alarming only partially decapitated, while completely true, had backfired on him somewhat. Sure, Sir Nick felt much better after their chat, but…well, Harry would just have to talk to this Patrick Delaney-Podmore, and see what he could do.

Hermione had been the one to bring up a number of valid points, and between her and Ron, Harry was beginning to doubt the wisdom of the plan. They probably didn't have human food at a Deathday party, it was true, and, yes, Ron, it would probably be more dangerous if something like last year happened, and they weren't with the rest of the school. But they couldn't spend the rest of their lives trailing after the Hogwarts professors, and the professors were capable of making mistakes. Wasn't school about preparing you for the real world?

Ron had eventually conceded defeat, perhaps owing in part to Hermione and Harry's joint eagerness towards the idea. He knew he'd be all alone in the Great Hall, if he went to the Hallowe'en Feast.

"And we only have to stay there for a few minutes, or half an hour, say. There's no need to _miss_ the Hallowe'en Feast entirely," Harry made sure to assure Ron. Ron could eat inhuman quantities of food, and Harry didn't want him to miss a meal. Knowing Ron, he'd somehow find a way to be even _more_ irritating, as a result.

Hogwarts was quite as wonderful as he had remembered, in spite of Lockhart and Creevey. The next match quidditch match was in early November, but Wood was keeping the entire team busy, which meant that Harry spent less time dwelling on bad memories.

Such as the incident during his detention with Lockhart. He couldn't even tell the origin of that voice—it had seemed to be coming from some distance away, but somehow, Lockhart hadn't heard it. Was it because of Harry's heightened senses? Or was it something else?

But no matter how he told himself to set it aside, sometimes, invariably, those familiar words surfaced again, in his thoughts. Who had it been threatening to rip, tear, and kill? Was the voice human at all?

As far as he knew, ghosts could look as frightening as they wished, but were incapable of harming people. Peeves was the only ghost in Hogwarts capable of interacting with his surroundings, but he was a friend and ally of the Twins, who were hardly the sorts to go around murdering people, even if they could have gotten away with it. Peeves…well, spirits were simplified from their human identities, which meant that Peeves was just an entity centred around causing as much mischief and havoc as he could. Murder was a bit more extreme than that.

Was this what Dobby had been warning him about? In those brief windows he had to dwell, between school and quidditch, he almost wished that Dobby would reappear, if only to be able to cross-examine him some more.

Somehow, it made sense that, because he was trying to ignore this specific problem (look how getting involved had turned out last year!), it would soon rear its ugly head in his face.

Well, not quite that. But _of course_ the next clue as to what sort of "terrible things" planned for this school year might be came on Hallowe'en. The day was officially curst, Harry decided.

It started, he would realise much later, with Sir Nick's Deathday party. Ghosts had indeed come from far and wide to attend, but Harry and Hermione spent much less time than anticipated taking in the sight of such a congregation, the ghostly customs and rituals, and even the later arrival of Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore, with his Headless Hunt. He didn't have the opportunity of quipping that _these_ were people, this was what it meant, to make light of your own death. And that had been half the reason for dragging Ron here.

They were too busy trying to ignore the stench of rotting food that permeated the (gothic) room, despite its size. Sir Nick told them that the food was left to rot because the stench increased its reality to them, allowing them to _almost_ taste the stuff.

It was probably not the smell that did it. Probably it was because the food was decaying, same as (many of) them were. Harry came to this conclusion, but did not voice it. He instead quietly removed the three of them to a less noxious corner. But then, they'd come upon Peeves just as Hermione was complaining about a ghost named "Moaning Myrtle", and he'd called Myrtle _over._

Harry had done his best to soothe the new ghost's distress, but she seemed determined to continue to languish in misery, complaining about how utterly unfeeling Hermione was, as Hermione tried to backpedal.

Judging by her later attitude, asking Myrtle more about her death right then and there would not have helped them at all; she would have just complained that they didn't know her well enough for her to trust them with such a dreadful secret. And he hadn't known the importance, the relevance, Myrtle had to the matter at the time.

No, he wouldn't learn that until it was too late to ask—an hour later, standing outside the flooded bathroom, staring at the limp form of Filch's cat, Missus Norris, as her body, limp as a cardboard cutout, swayed from where it was hung on the torch bracket.

But that was an hour away from Harry's attempts to placate Myrtle. He explained that people were generally quite frightened of ghosts, even wizards, because they didn't like being confronted by their own mortality (or that was what he'd read; he wasn't sure this was true; death did not alarm him overmuch, but Sir Nick's partial decapitation _did_). Hermione had not meant any offence to _her_ personally, but ghosts in general distressed people, especially when they appeared without warning, and the fact that her bathroom was, as Hermione said, "out of order", meant that—

He tried a variety of different tactics, but with Peeves there, anything he said was liable to be twisted or countered by Peeves, who seemed to enjoy the misery of deceased students quite as much as he did current, living ones.

Ron managed to fend Peeves off, and to formally apologise to Myrtle, which she treated with the same dismissive attitude that she had Harry. He wondered if it were even possible _not_ to upset her.

Myrtle had eventually shot off, driven to tears by Peeves's unkind comments, and Ron had stood there, glaring at the poltergeist, but more than aware from prior experience that any attempts to visit violence upon Peeves would be unsuccessful. He set to comforting Hermione instead, a much more feasible task.

Harry left them alone, wandering off to observe the ghastly screeching of Sir Nick's orchestra, and to speak with some of the ghosts he didn't recognise. They seemed to have come from all across Britain; Harry would have to point out to the still-moping Sir Nicholas that he was clearly well-liked and respected amongst the ghostly population.

Maybe tomorrow. Right now, the thoroughly rude behaviour of the party-crashing Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore had caught and held the attention of most of the attendant ghosts, their host included. Harry couldn't blame Sir Nicholas for grumbling under his breath (if ghosts breathed); what sort of complete lack of manners did it take to appear at a party to which you hadn't been invited, after snubbing the host, who was also the one the party was celebrating. And to then _rub into his face_ your dismissal of him?

Harry shook his head. He might not know Sir Nicholas very well, but he'd always had the time to help him, Ron, and Hermione, and he was well known and liked throughout Hogwarts.

"Well, _I_ for one think that it's _much_ scarier to have someone whose neck is only _mostly_ severed," Harry said, folding his arms and tilting his head back, straightening his posture almost without thinking. Borrowed authority, borrowed attitude, borrowed strength.

So what, if it worked?

"Ah, you must be Sir Nick's human friends," said the jovial Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore, pausing to juggle his head in his hands, as Sir Nick scowled, his usual good humour nowhere to be found.

"He _is_ our House Ghost. Have you given a thought to how terribly painful his death might have been? You look at Sir Nick, and think 'well, that might have been me, in another time and place'. It strikes me as a far more painful way to die than your clean cut was.

"I think that he is a better person in most regards, actually. Has he ever crashed any of _your_ get-togethers or hangouts, with never so much as a by-your-leave? No, as far as I can tell, his worst trait is that he for some reason looks up to _you_, who don't even give him even the most basic signs of respect. You _dare_ to come here, and parade off your skills, that he happens to lack, through no fault of his own, rubbing his nose in your rejection."

"Well, that's just it: he doesn't qualify for the _Headless_ Hunt," said Delaney-Podmore, with a cheerful smile. "In order to join, your head must be _completely_ severed. Otherwise, how would you go head-hunting, or headless horseback riding, or play volleyball with—"

"And who makes the rules? These activities—are they fundamental to your club?"

The ghosts were now gathering around to watch Harry's confrontation. Perhaps they were bored, or perhaps what he was saying had never occurred to them. At the moment, he neither knew nor cared. Although the thought would alarm him later, at the moment, this was just another argument to be won. And he usually succeeded in those, except when the other party included Odin—

"Well…as the presiding leader of the Headless Hunt, it is for me to decide upon the group's activities. But these all have long-standing history and tradition—"

"Ah, yes. Continue doing things as you always have, _because_ you always have. Would it be so difficult to tweak some of those activities, or even give Sir Nick a _partial_ membership, for his _partial_ beheading, and find some activities in which he _could_ participate? He does, after all, _almost_ qualify for full membership—surely that makes him eligible for at least a _lower_ membership rank?"

"Well, I—I suppose I didn't think of _that_. I will think about it. You have given me a lot to think about, actually, Master—"

Harry paused, blinked, came to himself, glanced around and saw Ron and Hermione, the latter with her head in her hands, Ron beaming at him, both watching the spectacle he'd accidentally made of Sir Nick's party.

"Potter," he muttered, bowing his head, and turning to Sir Nick. "I'm very sorry, Sir Nicholas," he said, suddenly feeling rather worn. "I think it's best if we leave now, before we can cause any _more_ trouble at your party."

"But Harry—" Sir Nick protested, but whatever else he said, Harry didn't hear it. He trudged back out of the room, via the door through which he'd entered; maybe there were others, maybe not, but he couldn't be bothered to find one right now. He didn't notice Ron and Hermione following.

He decided that he might as well go back to the Hallowe'en Feast, but before he could head more than a corridor in that direction—

—_kill_, said the voice from his detention with Lockhart. As if it had been a command uttered by an enemy commander, he stopped dead in his tracks, or rather, skidded to a stop on the loose sediment that was inevitable with a limestone floor. He strained his ears, for the noise, hoping to pinpoint its source. And sure enough, he heard it again, moving further down the hall, away from the Deathday party: _Let me kill this time…._

He broke into a run, trying to catch it up…wherever it was. It seemed almost to be coming from the wall itself—perhaps he'd see something around the corner?

_So__ hungry…for __so__ long… _the voice moaned. Its distress seemed real, and not exaggerated. But for some reason, he couldn't tell if what it was saying were true or false. He frowned. A skilled liar could pull the wool over his eyes, but he sensed that there was something different in play here. And the voice sounded strangely tinny.

He lost his focus for a moment, skidding to a stop and crossing his arms as he turned back to glare at the voice that had cried, "Harry! Wait for us!"

It was Hermione. And she was out of breath from racing after him. Ron caught up to him in that brief time, his gaze flickering between the two of them.

"Is something amiss?" he asked.

"_Shh_!" Harry hissed, closing his eyes and trying to pinpoint the voice again. It was very faint, still mumbling on about murder. "Do you hear that—that voice, from inside the walls?"

Hermione caught up, glaring right back at him. But she must have seen something in the expression on his face, because her glare quickly fell into a worried frown, and she reached out to comfort him. He flinched, and withdrew, and then ran back after the voice, determined to keep it in earshot.

Hermione gave an exasperated sigh, but hurried after him, but Ron had little trouble keeping up with Harry, now that he'd caught up.

"I heard no such voice," he said, his own pitched low. "A voice from the walls? Harry, are you certain—?"

"I know what I heard!" Harry snapped. "Just trust me on this! There's something loose in the school, and it keeps going on about how it's going to kill someone! We have to find out what it is, and at least try to stop it, before everyone comes back from the feast—"

"Are you sure that that is the best plan? They say that there is safety in numbers—"

"And not to yell 'fire!' in a crowded movie theatre. Don't you think talk of murder would make anyone uneasy?"

_I smell blood. I smell BLOOD!_ the voice cried, as if contributing its own opinion. Harry glanced back at Ron, but he showed no sign of having heard it at all. Could it be? Something else that only Harry experienced?

This had better not be another sign of madness.

Loose gravel was an unfortunate, but inevitable hazard when it came to running through the Hogwarts halls. This was a fact that had never seemed quite as important before, such as last year, when he'd roamed the halls in the middle of the night looking for Malfoy's trophy room, but it made the entire hallway and corridors seem rather…slippery. Or perhaps that was actually water on the floor.

He glanced down at the shining steak of wetness. Not all loose gravel, after all.

As he rounded the latest bend, Ron beside him with lips pressed together as if he was considering saying something, which meant he wouldn't, Harry heard a low murmur of many voices coming their way. He glanced at his watch. Frowned as he noted the time. How had they _missed_ the Hallowe'en Feast? If time flew when you were having fun, did that mean that they'd enjoyed themselves, at Sir Nick's Deathday party? It hadn't _seemed_ to last five hours.

He came to a halt before he could slip and fall in the enormous pool of water before him. Ron brought himself to a halt with equal ease, but Hermione's momentum carried her up to them.

But Harry wasn't looking at her. He was looking at the words written in something red (was it blood? Could it be blood?) underneath a torch bracket from which hung Mrs. Norris, Filch's beloved cat (beloved by Filch, hated by the rest of the school).

The water of the pool beneath it seeped from underneath a closed door, casting luminescence almost as eerie as that of the blue-flamed candles at Sir Nick's Deathday party, distorting the blood-red letters, and throwing the light of the torch back at itself.

_Where had all that water come from?_ some part of Harry wondered, but most of it was turning over the words of the message.

"_The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the Heir, beware_", it read, in all capital letters.

Chamber of Secrets? Enemies of the Heir? What could they be referring to? Did it have anything to do with the miniature lake inhibiting passage of the corridor, or the unusually stiff cat hanging from the torch bracket? Well, of course it had something to do with Missus Norris's current state: she was the example, the warning attached to the threat. _This could happen to you_.

But how were they connected? Who was the Heir?

"'Enemies of the Heir, beware'! Ha! Better watch out! You'll be next, mudbloods!" Malfoy crowed, as he sashayed past the message. He and his goons passed right by the trio without seeming to notice them, for which Harry was thankful.

Still, what had Malfoy been doing here? Harry's eyes narrowed at him.

No. Too obvious, he decided, unless Malfoy was taking refuge in his being too obvious a choice. But no, he doubted that Malfoy had that rudimentary intelligence. The Hat had probably only put him in Slytherin, the "house of the cunning" for want of a better choice. He could just hear it: _Well, you've nothing __like__ chivalry, and no sense of fair play, and you place no value on intelligence, wit, or education…better be "_SLYTHERIN"!

That was, he decided, why Malfoy had been so swiftly sorted.

"Chamber of Secrets…Chamber of Secrets," Hermione was muttering to herself, as the crowd from the Hallowe'en Feast became audible behind them. "I know I've heard of it before."

"Harry! We should leave and find a professor! Inform them of what we found here, before everyone arrives, and—"

"Yes, we should make ourselves scarce. Perhaps if we headed for the common room—"

Hermione was about to pull her impression of a hunted rabbit. Harry rolled his eyes, grabbed her arm, and broke into another run. It would be even more suspicious to run from the scene of the crime back in the direction whence they'd come—and the post-Feast crowd was heading their way. But Harry knew a shortcut that might allow them to slip in amongst them, unnoticed. Thence, they need only seek out Dumbledore.

He frowned. Because that had worked so well the last time?

But this time, he reminded himself, he had every reason to think that Dumbledore was himself present in the school. He might even be in the Great Hall, still.

They exited the hidden corridor, and Harry took a moment to reorient himself (Hermione attempted to glare at him, but was too out-of-breath to succeed much), and then set off at a brisk walk towards the Great Hall. He was only not running for two reasons: the first was to be less conspicuous. The second was out of consideration for poor Hermione. Although part of him wondered why she was the only one of them out of breath.

"This is the path to the Great Hall," Ron noted, brow furrowed, as he tried to figure out what Harry was about. Harry just nodded, trying to think ahead. A voice only he could hear (silent now) coming from within the walls, speaking of murder and bloodshed. He might have dismissed it as all in his mind, were it not for the stone-still Mrs. Norris hanging from the torch bracket, and the words scrawled above the stagnant puddle.

Did he know that corridor? Had he seen it flooded before? What should he say? What should he admit to?

Ron interrupted the direction his thoughts were heading in to address those same thoughts.

"Harry, be careful to whom you admit that you have heard these…voices. Even in the Wizarding World, hearing voices no others can is…unusual."

Harry's heart started pounding, which not even the ten-minute (three hour?) run they'd just engaged in had managed. And what did Ron mean, _even_ in the Wizarding World?

And then he remembered that Mr. Weasley worked in the Improper Use of Muggle Artefacts office at the Ministry, and that he took apart cars for a hobby. And that Ron lived in a muggle town.

He was, in short, being paranoid again.

They rounded the corner, entering the Great Hall…only to find it empty.

Somehow, that figured. Now he'd have to seek out Dumbledore. Or perhaps not. Perhaps Dumbledore would seek out him. He'd been told that the old man knew "pretty much everything that went on in this school".

Did _he_, perhaps, know about the Chamber of Secrets, and the mysterious Heir?


	8. Fuss and Mind Games

"It must be Malfoy," were the first words out of Hermione's mouth once they were safe back in Gryffindor Tower, and no one was paying them any mind. Harry could see that she'd been turning the matter over the entire walk back, in between glaring at him for leading her all over school on a wild goose chase. No one had any doubt what she meant.

"Really?" asked Harry, in a would-be casual voice. "Just as it 'must have been' Professor Snape who tried to kill me on the quidditch pitch last year?"

Her glare intensified. "I know he did it! Did you hear him gloat? He clearly knew _precisely_ what the 'Heir' was, and who its enemies were, and seemed to think that we—"

"Or he was posturing. Or he knew what the title was—that's likely enough; I'll concede that—but without _being_ said Heir, himself."

Hermione wasn't listening. "But that isn't even what's bothering me most right now. I know I've heard that phrase—'the Chamber of Secrets'—before. I just—I just can't think of _where_!"

Harry paused, frowning. He shot Ron an apologetic glance. "Then perhaps we should check the library—"

"It's after curfew! And I'll bet that the people who _remember_ where I read that name will have checked out every copy of that book before I can get there tomorrow! I could just hit something—"

She was definitely spending too much time with Ron, Harry decided. Since when did _Hermione_ jump to the conclusion that violence was the best answer to everything? Even worse, she even punched the cushion of the armchair she was sitting in, driving the fabric into a deep depression.

She probably _did_ remember what she'd read, but it was one of those things—the harder you tried to remember, the further away the memory went. But it was quite as maddening for him—he'd _never_ heard or read the term before, and if Hermione was right, she was his best source. Hmm. What to do…?

Ron was probably more than a bit alarmed when Harry's head suddenly shot up, and he glanced back at Hermione, who was reduced to frantic muttering to herself, probably thinking that it would somehow make a difference, as if she might reserve the books ahead of time if she just remembered _where_….

_Did_ Hogwarts have a remote library reservation system? He shook his head, glancing at Ron, and putting a finger to his lips, hoping that Ron would, for once, keep silent without needing to be expressly asked.

"Oh, calm down, Hermione. You can't check out books at the library indefinitely, can you?" Harry said, still in his most casual voice, as if he didn't care one way or the other.

She paused. "I don't—I don't _think_ so." She hiccuped a little, but she wasn't crying yet, which was something.

"Hermione," he said, in his most soothing voice. "_Breathe_. I know you're upset, but it isn't as if knowing all this at once is that important. I mean, we're just three students. What could we do about the 'Chamber of Secrets'—whatever it is?"

She was desperate enough for reassurance that she didn't remind him that they were younger and less experienced when they'd saved the Philosopher's Stone, last year.

"Eventually, one of those books will come back to the library. We'll put your name on the lists first thing tomorrow. And if you _really_ feel the need to know more, you can ask Professor Binns in History of Magic—tomorrow?"

"Tuesday," Ron corrected him. That was an acceptable interruption, but Harry still turned to glare at him. _Shh!_ he mouthed at Ron, finger to his lips again. Ron folded his arms, but otherwise remained standing exactly as he had, next to Hermione's armchair. Harry leant forwards in his own, turning his head to the left to address Hermione.

"Al—alright," Hermione muttered, sounding defeated and miserable, still.

"Oh, so what if you don't remember some stupid story!" Harry cried. "You still know _plenty_ of other useful things. Would you feel better if you helped Ron and me with our homework? You could show us up without even trying, I'm sure."

"I'm so _stupid_!" Hermione wailed, as if the dam had burst. She was crying, now, and Ron shot him a sharp look, and Harry sighed, rubbing at his eyes. It was too late in the day for so much noise.

"Hermione," he said, keeping his voice as level and reassuring as he could. Hermione was _very_ difficult to handle. Ron was doing a better job. He'd knelt beside her and was stroking her hair, or something. Harry sighed, shaking his head. Hermione couldn't see him doing that, and neither could Ron, who was standing in front of Hermione's chair, now.

A few of the older, higher year students glared at Hermione. Harry glared back at them. He didn't care if they had some big exams coming up at the end of the year. They should be more worried than this about what had Hermione so upset. She didn't often cry, anymore. Not after she'd joined Harry and Ron.

"Hermione, look at me," he said. She sort of turned to face him, and Ron drew to the side, with another stern look in Harry's direction. Harry ignored him. "You are _not_ stupid. And I can prove it. Just trust me. Do me a favour, okay?"

She hesitated, because she was smart. "What sort of a favour?" she asked, eyes narrowing.

His eyes widened, as if in response, and he spread his hands in a disarming gesture. "Oh, no, nothing _bad_," he assured her. "I'm just going to ask you some questions…and stuff."

"Please, Harry, I recognise _that_ trick," she said, somehow managing to muster up a derisive laugh.

He leant forwards again, turning to face her. "What if I swear to you that what I ask will harm neither you nor anyone else?" he tried.

She didn't seem to have the energy to keep up her objections. Her shoulders slumped. "…Fine…" she muttered.

"Alright," Harry said. "Hermione, who is the current Prime Minister of England?" he asked, first.

"David Carlisle," she replied, with an obviously puzzled frown.

"What's the formula for calculating the volume of a cube?"

"Length times width times height," said Hermione, shaking her head. "_Everyone_ knows the answers to _those_ questions."

Harry paused, cocked his head, considering. "I don't think _Dudley_ does," he said. He shrugged, and moved on to geography.

From geography to chemistry to astronomy to English literature to grammar to spelling to world history he went, occasionally urging Hermione to relax, and asking if she felt a bit more confident now. She rolled her eyes the last time, in response.

"See, you know plenty," he said, and she sniffled, but almost smiled at him. "But you know more than just that. Hermione," he said with a bit of a grin. "What's the difference between aconite and wolfsbane?"

She smiled, too, at that, remembering how Professor Snape hadn't let her answer. Perhaps at this response, Ron glanced over in Harry's direction, expression considering, and then relaxed, moving to kneel next to Hermione's armchair as if she were a queen, and he a courtier.

"They're the same plant," she said, and then, after a pause, "…although I think someone said they had different etymological roots."

Harry continued on to transfiguration, herbology, charms, defence, and even when he occasionally asked for more obscure information, Hermione still knew the answer.

Time to switch tracks.

"You know, Hermione, I've been wondering about fairytales. For some reason, when I complained to adults about my treatment at the Dursleys, they kept comparing me to someone called 'Cinderella'. That sounds to me like a girl's name. But all they'd say is 'you know, from the fairytale?'. I never _could_ convince them that I _didn't_ know. The Dursleys didn't tolerate anything magical being mentioned under their roof. I suppose that's why. I mean, fairies are magical creatures, right?"

Hermione sat up straight. "The word 'fairy' is actually a general, all-encompassing term for a variety of different magical creatures, such as goblins, ogres, and, yes, pixies. They're classified as—"

"Er, Hermione? I just wondered…do you know that fairytale?"

Hermione blinked, and nodded. "Everyone does," she said.

"_I_ don't," Harry corrected her. Ron was shaking his head.

"There are different folktales in the Wizarding World. I am curious about this 'Cinderella', as well."

That was a helpful contribution. Harry would let it slide. He nodded at Ron.

"We wouldn't even know if you made it up out of your head, but, hey, you're our expert! I'm sure you remember just how the story goes. If you wouldn't mind…."

Hermione frowned. "Well…you're right, I do remember it. It wasn't my favourite fairytale, when I was little, but I heard a version from my parents. And there's a Disney movie of it, too. There's actually two main versions of the tale, too—"

Harry leant forward eagerly. "But how does it _go_?"

She shot him a reproachful glare, and sighed. "It begins the same way all fairytales do: 'Once upon a time'. So, once upon a time, there was a merchant whose only family was his wife, and their daughter…."

Harry listened intently to the tale, comparing it with his own upbringing. He supposed he could see some similarities, although the Dursleys would never have thrown good food in the ashes, even had their fireplace been real. But the idea of having to do all the household chores, without a room or even a bed of his own… yes, that sounded familiar. He sighed, and frowned.

"Thank you, Hermione," he said, quickly exchanging his frown for a smile. "But…well, are all fairytales so…violent?"

Hermione frowned, considering. "Well, no, not _all_ of them, but many of the better known ones are. 'Snow White' is worse than 'Cinderella', or 'Sleeping Beauty', but 'Rapunzel' is slightly…less…."

"Will you tell us those?" Ron asked, curiosity obviously piqued—he had forgotten that Harry was scheming something. Were wizard fairytales boring, or something?

Hermione huffed, and crossed her arms, but then she started to smile.

"You're like little kids!" she complained. "How do you _not_ already know these stories?"

Harry shrugged. "Dursleys," he said, as if that explained everything. In his eyes, it did.

"The Wizarding World has different fairytales," Ron repeated.

"Well, I suppose I could start with 'Snow White'…although it's getting a bit late—do you want me to read you two to sleep?"

Harry cocked his head, puzzled, and Hermione sighed again, but it was a regretful sigh, this time. "Sorry, Harry."

He just smiled, and tried not to rush her.

"Let's see: once upon a time there was a queen who sat embroidering at her window…."

And from "Snow White", they moved on to "Sleeping Beauty", and then "Rapunzel", the first story to feature an even semi-sympathetic witch.

"I'm starting to see how witches got such a bad reputation," Harry said, as Hermione finished "Hansel and Gretel". "Gruesome" did not even begin to cover some of these tales.

Ron was drinking them in avidly, of course.

"Well, I think we've asked you about enough stories you don't care about. What was your favourite one when you were little?" he asked.

And Hermione launched into a story about a clever peasant girl who marries a king, with much greater enthusiasm than what she showed for the previous ones.

It was also, perhaps not coincidentally, far less gruesome, with absolutely no violence or bloodshed.

"That's amazing, Hermione," Harry breathed, when she was done. "You know so many stories—it's as if you've got a library in your head!" She blushed, and looked down, and Harry pressed on.

"I bet you remember everything you've ever even _heard_," he said. "Or maybe just what you thought was interesting or important, perhaps? If people's minds were houses, I think you'd have a room that was just a library, with every story you've ever heard or read, and every speech you ever listened to or studied, and every class you've ever taken, in it. In fact, I can almost picture it: it would be very spacious, and roomy, and not very comfortable, but it would be filled with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and they'd be _full_ of books."

"Oh, no," Hermione said, with an almost vague smile. "It would all be in gryffindor colours, because I'm ever-so-glad I got into this house instead of Ravenclaw, you know, but it would be a lot more personalised than you seem to think. I think I'd have photos of my friends and family, too, and chairs with really good cushions, and desks where I could compare the books amongst one another. I wish I really had such a room, now you've made me think of it."

Harry leant forwards. "But you _do_, see. It's in your head, isn't it? Your own _personal_ library. And since you designed it, you'd know where everything was."

She nodded. "That makes sense…I think…."

"Well then, Hermione," said Harry, with a smile. "I just have one more question: _what is the Chamber of Secrets_?"

Ron inhaled sharply, and Harry caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye as Ron's gaze snapped to him, but Harry was staring at Hermione. He waited, hoping that Ron's gasp hadn't distracted her too much. Her hand twitched. As if, perhaps, she were picking up a book, flicking it open, beginning to read.

> The Chamber of Secrets was said to be a secret room within Hogwarts, built with the castle, when Hogwarts was founded a thousand years ago, by one of its four founders, Salazar Slytherin himself. Although many have searched for it in the millennium since his departure, no evidence or trace of the Chamber of Secrets has ever been found. It is widely believed to be fictitious, a legend inspired by Slytherin's infamous hatred of muggles and muggleborns, which led to his departure from his school.
> 
> Although no trace of the Chamber of Secrets has ever been found, the legend persists to this day. Common counters to the claim that if it existed, it should have been found by now are that, according to the legend, only Slytherin's heir could find or open the Chamber, and that Slytherin, although a dark wizard, is well-known to have mastered many disciplines of magic that have since, owing perhaps to this very infamy, fallen into disuse.
> 
> According to the legend, before Slytherin left Hogwarts for good, he warned that he had left behind a 'horror within' a hidden chamber of the school, a chamber which had served as his personal study, where he had kept his most closely-guarded secrets. He threatened his former fellow professors and students with the ominous words that one day, his descendant would return, and finish his work of ridding the school of muggles and muggleborns. No sooner had he left the school, it is said, did the remaining Founders reconcile, and together the school was searched thoroughly for any signs of such a chamber. Tellingly, when none was found, however, they did not assume that Slytherin's words were merely an idle threat. This is the greatest evidence of the truth of the legend that there is.
> 
> No more than speculation can be made as to what manner of monster Slytherin might have hidden within the school, if the tale be true. It is assumed that it is some manner of highly venomous snake, as the snake is the mascot of Slytherin's house, and the man was himself renowned for his rare parselmouth ability.
> 
> Despite this, it is a fact that Hogwarts is a school of many secrets, and although none have found the Chamber of Secrets yet, it is a distinct possibility that the defenders of the legend are correct in their insistence that none but the Heir of Slytherin could find the chamber. It is said that there is truth behind every story, legend and myth. The truth behind this legend, however, remains to be seen.

"Ah," said Harry. He wasn't sure what else to say. He remembered that, somewhere in her story, there had been some unfamiliar term or other he had wanted to ask her about, but that question was drowned out by the sudden influx of information. It was a lot to digest, but he'd wanted to hear the story before he went to bed, so that he could ask his mother more about it.

He shook his head, bringing himself back to the present. "Well, that answers some questions, I suppose, while raising quite a few others. Did it say anything else?"

"No," said Hermione, pouting. "I always meant to look up more about it, but it was just a story at the time, and nothing important, unlike all the other information I was reading at the same time. I just…."

"Don't worry about it," Harry said, waving his hand dismissively. "You gave us quite a lot of information."

Her eyes suddenly shot open, and she rounded on him. He hadn't expected _that_ reaction.

"Harry!" she shouted, leaping to her feet to point at him. "What did you just do to me?"

He blinked, confused. "What—?"

"I couldn't recall _anything_. Nothing at all! And then you put some sort of—of—"

"Oh, that," Harry said, looking away. "It's just mild hypnosis, is all. It's already worn off."

Hermione gasped, and her glare intensified. "You _hypnotised_ me? Without even _asking_ me first?"

He frowned again, brow furrowed, as he tried to figure out why she was so upset. "Well, yes, that might have meant it didn't work, if you knew what I was doing—"

"You had no _righ_t to do that without asking me! How _dare_ you!"

"What's the problem?" he asked. "Hypnosis isn't what you see on television or read in books, or anything. It's nothing like mind control, or I wouldn't use it. It's just making you relaxed enough to—"

"I don't care! Maybe I would have agreed to your stupid trick, if you had just _asked_ me! This is worse than last year, with Neville! I'm going to bed! And I'm not talking to you anymore!"

She stormed off, leaving a thoroughly confused Harry behind. He turned to Ron, but Ron was frowning too.

"Hermione is right, Harry," he said, and somehow, his reproach was far worse than Hermione's. Perhaps because he almost seemed…resigned. "What you did was wrong. You should apologise to her, come morning."

He hesitated a few seconds, and then stood and went off to the boys dorms. Leaving Harry, for the first time in months, completely alone. But what should he have expected? He'd said it himself: sooner or later, he was _always_ going to be alone.

* * *

Harry leant back in his armchair, and thought. He did not much appreciate the accusations and concerns his own mind was now voicing. Yes, it was not a very nice thing to do, to manipulate someone's mind, but he'd had the best of intentions, and he hadn't made Hermione do anything she hadn't wanted to do—not that you even _could_, using hypnosis. He'd been careful to be courteous and kind to her, to give the illusion of merely shoring up her confidence whilst in fact just trying to get her to relax enough to lead into the true objective of their conversation. In short, he'd "played" her.

That was not something that friends did, was it? It probably wasn't something that _good_ people did, either. And he wanted to claim that it was only because he had no guidance, no familiarity, with how friendship worked, with how he _should_ interact with his peers, and a—what had the Sorting Hat said? a _warped_ sense of morality—to go on. But the moment he tried to talk himself into absolution along that road, it occurred to him….

Last year, too, they had all three been trying to _remember_ where they'd heard the name of Nicholas Flamel before. If hypnosis were just an innocent means of retrieving information, why hadn't he used it then?

The answer was not simple, but complicated. The first part was the most straightforward, but perhaps the most alarming. One reason he hadn't hypnotised either of them then? Was that _Harry Potter didn't know __**how**__ to hypnotise people_. He'd never learnt it, had not wasted any of his precious time back at the Little Whinging Public Library studying it, and certainly hadn't considered researching the matter here at Hogwarts—although he doubted he'd have found such a mundane, "_muggle_" subject in the Hogwarts library.

And this first reason had an entire attendant train of other thoughts attached to it. Because if he, Harry Potter, had never learnt how to hypnotise people, then how did he know?

There were two answers. The first, highly unlikely one was that it was all a coincidence, and nothing had just happened at all. And wasn't that a reassuring thought! But the probable truth was, naturally, that he knew, because _Loki_ knew. The only problem was, owing to his uncertainty over whether it was learnt from Loki or not, he _could_ be sure that it wasn't in any of his memories. What did that suggest? Some sort of innate godly ability? A sort of quasi (or actual) magic Loki had used, but Harry just hadn't witnessed in his dreams? And if they weren't in his dreams, _how had he used it at all_?

Up until now—as he'd thought of it—he'd taken what he'd _observed_, and modified it to fit external reality. That was a safe, normal, third person, external sort of learning, which allowed him to ignore the possible connection between him and Loki. You could watch any expert in action, and, if you were smart in the right ways, teach yourself to do as they did. That's what learning _was_. But to take something you _hadn't_ observed, and nevertheless do as an expert did….

If it was Loki's magic or innate ability, then it said something that Harry didn't want to hear, that Harry could use it, too. If it wasn't—if it were truly something anyone could do, but he hadn't witnessed it in dreams, that said the same thing. Harry really didn't like what he thought it was saying.

He remembered his behaviour at Sir Nick's Deathday Party, too. It was as if he'd slipped into some sort of third space, between Loki and Harry Potter, which was, frankly, an alarming thought. Perhaps he shouldn't've, he sensed his mother disapproved, but he'd shoved whatever was affected and controlled—tainted—by Thanos, into a box he'd labeled "Loki", and put it away, in the farthest recesses of his mind. Did that mean, in those seconds, he'd been vulnerable to Thanos's influence?

And even if no, did it mean that _he_, Harry Potter, was being subsumed by the figure of his dreams—Loki? Did that mean that, perhaps in a few years, there'd cease to be a "Harry Potter" at all? To say that that question made him uneasy would be an understatement. But what was the weight of ten years' worth of memory, next to the centuries of memories that Loki had, real or not?

Because last year, he _knew_, even _had_ he known how to hypnotise his friends, he wouldn't have. There was perhaps too much bad press surrounding the subject, but it was also too…manipulative. Too personal. It was treating people like tools, and even for the greater good….

He frowned to himself, staring down at the floor. Ron had been the last person save for Harry himself to leave the common room. It had emptied out at midnight, when Hermione had been telling the tale of Rapunzel, and he'd barely noticed, then.

He noticed, now.

_Am I a monster?_ he wondered. The thought had never really occurred to him before, but Hermione and Ron had a fair point: it was dubious at best to manipulate a person's mind or emotions without their permission.

He sighed, leaning forwards but tilting his head back towards the ceiling, thinking hard.

Maybe something had happened, last year. He remembered the forewarning in the Forbidden Forest, that something _bad_ was waking. Beneath the school, facing down Quirrell, that premonition had been realised. And then he and Ron had set it aside, as if it had never happened. As if it would have no lasting effects.

He needed to talk to Mother. He was beginning to realise that his thoughts were trying to enter dangerous territory. And Ron wasn't here to pull him out of them.

Sleep eluded him. He had too much to think on, and armchairs did not make the most comfortable of beds. And yet…he did not feel like entering the gryffindor boys dorms. It would bring back to mind everything that had happened before, and Ron's disappointment in him…the resignation, almost as if he'd _expected_ it.

Harry stared at his shoes as he scuffed at the carpet underneath. He closed his eyes, and tried to relax, thought of hypnosis, and started awake.

Insomnia being as perverse as it is, he didn't sleep at all that night.


	9. Ceci n'est pas un Chapitre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is basically overflow from the previous one, when that one got too long. Accordingly, it doesn't really have its own title.

Even though it was a Sunday, the events of the night before were so…compelling, that he couldn't sleep in. He was beginning to question if he had done the right thing, chastising Harry as he had. But in that moment, he had been forcibly reminded of another time, another confrontation, a different sort of mind game. Perhaps he'd overreacted, but at that point in time, he had thought, perhaps, that if he had reprimanded Harry, it would cause him to reject any such mental manipulation in the future.

But perhaps, instead….

He remembered that expression on Harry's face, pushing him away at the end of last year, the way he'd apologised more fervently than necessary whenever he thought he'd overstepped bounds, always wary, always alert.

Always convinced that they would leave him if he didn't. Just as Thor _had_, last night.

He opened his eyes to a dormitory with four occupied beds, and one missing individual. He drew aside the curtains for the day, glancing around the room, seeing that the curtains of the other beds were all closed—except for those around Harry's.

Had Harry even come to bed last night?

Harry would say that he was smothering, fretting needlessly, that he was _fine_, that he could take care of himself. And Thor knew that Harry was strong enough. But it was not a question of strength. He was still driven, too, by the feeling that he _should have done_ more (_What more could you have done?_ asked the ghost of Tony's voice, again), that he had failed Loki, and now, he thought that he might well have failed Harry, too.

He should say something. He should check on Harry. He should perhaps even apologise for what he had said. The night of Hallowe'en had been a long one, for everyone in the castle. Tensions were high, rumours already abounding, he was sure, and perhaps fear was beginning to permeate the castle, spread unintentionally, and not, by those who remembered what the Chamber of Secrets was, who the "enemies of the Heir" would perforce be.

He descended the stairs back to the common room several minutes later, ready for the day, wondering where Harry was, questioning what he should have said, what he _should_ say, when he saw Harry next.

Harry was still sitting in the same armchair, head bowed, eyes closed, but his head rose as Thor descended the stairs. His eyes opened, and he cocked his head, and then looked down at the floor, again.

"I'm sorry about last night," he said. "I already apologised to Hermione, but she would hear none of it."

"I shall speak with her," Thor offered. Harry frowned, eyes closed, head bowed. Fleetingly, he wondered if Harry had fallen asleep.

"What I did was wrong. I understand that—now. But (and I know this will sound incredible) I don't even know _why_ I did it. Am I just a bad person?"

Even if that question was rhetorical, Thor was going to answer it. He couldn't tell; it might have been, but it didn't matter. He was not letting such an opportunity go to waste.

"No. You told us, yourself, that you did not see that what you did was in any way bad. You were trying to assist Hermione, and what you did…did not harm her. Your mistake was that you did not explain to us, that you did not ask for her permission. I believe that is why she is so upset. But, as I think of it now, I was too harsh on you, as well. The Dursleys cannot have been…suitable role models, and from whom else would you learn manners, or morals? Truly, we should be impressed that you have _any_ understanding, of either."

Harry seemed to be trying to smile, but it was faded, and strained, frayed, perhaps, around the edges, and his eyes were still closed.

The eyes were the windows to the soul. Thor'd heard that phrase before, but it had made little sense, then. But for Harry, whose rein on his emotions was always tight, his eyes were sometimes the only gauge of his mood.

"You are a good person, Harry," said Thor. "Perhaps you…'got carried away'? I found Hermione's method of telling those stories very engaging—"

"I _planned_ it. From the beginning," Harry snapped, interrupting. His voice sounded hoarse, and yet somehow distant. Weary. Thor wondered, again, if he'd slept at all the night before.

Harry's head finally lifted again, his eyes snapped open, but then, as if forcibly redirecting his own actions, he picked at the nap of the arm of his chair instead, gaze falling back to the floor.

"Yes," Thor agreed. "I knew that you were planning something. But at that moment, I did not remember such concerns. You would say that such is normal behaviour for me, but, as it turned out, I worried needlessly."

Not even the hint of a smile. "Hermione is still 'not on speaking terms' with me," he said. "But you're telling me what I did _wasn't_ wrong? She said it herself: I _tricked_ her."

…And now, Thor was wondering whether Harry had done _anything at all_ wrong, or if, somehow, sleight-of-hand, and subtlety, were just too much of who Harry was as a person. Natural as breathing. If he tried to steer Harry away from any path that _might_ harbour Thanos's influence, if Harry obeyed, and limited himself to activities that met with society's approval, with Thor's approval, such as it was, what was left for him? Thor had never, even when Loki had been at his most disruptive, or at his bitterest, wished for Loki to be just another, younger version of himself.

The real question, then: were his actions, unintentionally, bent towards turning Harry into something he wasn't? Into denying who he was? Had it been _Thor and Hermione_ in the wrong?

"You meant _well_," he said, into a gathering silence. "That is the most important fact. I might not approve of what you did, but I understand why you did it, and I realise…that you are not like me. Perhaps I was unjust. Perhaps _I_ was wrong."

Harry blinked, frowning, brow furrowing, he tilted his head to the side, studying Thor. It was far too familiar. Thor had to look away.

There was a moment of silence, when neither of them said anything, but then Harry said, "Then…you forgive me?" And when Thor just nodded, he continued. "But Hermione made it quite plain that she would not be setting aside my mistake as readily."

"I will speak with her," Thor offered, again, and Harry sighed, shook his head, but at least the ghost of a smile finally appeared. "Give her her space," he suggested. "I can't really blame her for her reaction…."

"It would make for awkward conversation at breakfast," Thor began, but Harry waved a hand, not looking at him.

"I'm not going to breakfast, I think. I'm rather tired—I didn't sleep at all, and as this is a Sunday…I at least have the chance to sleep in. I haven't seen Dean, Seamus, or Neville come downstairs, either, which means you're up before everyone else. If breakfast sounds appealing to you, go ahead.

"And don't worry about me. I'll be _fine_ here on my own."

It seemed that, despite not looking, Harry had noticed Thor open his mouth to speak. That should not be possible, and yet, somehow, it made sense.

"Are you sure?" Thor asked, instead. It seemed horribly irresponsible to leave Harry in such a state, but at the same time, he knew that Harry didn't appreciate what he considered "overprotection".

Another nod was his response, still with that vague smile, and Thor resolved to hasten through breakfast to return to see how Harry fared. They could, all three of them, any of the three of them, be rather stubborn when they felt it important.

* * *

They could, any of the three of them, be rather stubborn when they put their mind to it. Including Hermione. She frowned when she heard about the conversation Thor had had with Harry in the gryffindor common room. Thor suspected that she hadn't slept as well as she ought to have, either, but after last night's scare, combined with the fact that last night had been Hallowe'en… well, most of the _school_ was tired and wary after last night. Already questions as to what the Chamber of Secrets was, and who the Heir could be, were beginning to circulate round the school. Hermione rolled her eyes, listening to the chatter.

"Harry's tough," she said, shrugging her dismissal of Thor's words. Remembering that metal conducts electricity, Thor pushed his plate aside, to reduce the risk that he would bump into it. It was a good thing that few people were awake at this early hour; there were few to notice him make mistakes, if he, for instance, accidentally set the tablecloth on fire, or filled the silverware of the table with something a bit stronger than static electricity. Which would probably also set the tablecloth on fire, albeit less directly. "I'm sure his relatives scolded him before, but I _know_ McGonagall has, and Snape. He always just dismisses it."

"This seemed different," Thor insisted, and Hermione raised an eyebrow (she and Loki could do that, but Thor suspected that he would never learn, himself). "I believe that we genuinely upset him, this time. He cannot help being who he is, and what skills he possesses. Perhaps you ought to apologise to him."

Hermione glared up at him through her curly bangs, stabbing a pancake with alarming viciousness. "Ask for forgiveness?" she snapped. "He's the one who did something wrong!"

"Bet he didn't see it that way," Ginny said, sliding down next to them. Her hair was a stringy mess, as if she'd slept for several days, and then been so hungry that she couldn't bother making herself presentable before coming downstairs. "We are talking about Harry, right?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Who _else_?"

Ginny nodded, stretched, and yawned. "Sorry, 'Mione, I didn't sleep too well last night. I think the stress of school may be getting to me."

Hermione gave her a kindly smile. "That's alright, Ginny. I was there last year."

Ginny shrugged, and slumped over the table. "But Harry…well, he sort of made my life hell this last summer, but I don't think he _meant_ to, and he felt right awful after it. I just reminded myself that the Dursleys wouldn't have taught him about something they thought so little of as tact. Or morals. Or consideration of others. Or—"

"Good Lord!" Hermione cried, now sounding much more alert. "What did he _do_?"

Ginny gave a weary smile that barely lifted the corners of her eyes. "Oh, trashed my room, dyed my hair black, the usual. Mum said that that's usually a sign that—Oh!"

She sprang to her feet, and raced away, and Fred and George sat down a few seconds later, on either side of Hermione. They knew she had a fixation with rules, same as Percy, and that she therefore appreciated their presence least of those present. They were like cats, that way.

"Oh, fine. I didn't mean to shatter his fragile ego!" Hermione snapped, stabbing the still cold butter in the butter dish so hard the dish threatened to shatter. Thor wondered why she was in such a bad mood, but knew better than to ask. Mostly. "But, I'm waiting until after breakfast!" she continued, glaring around their part of the table as if daring anyone to argue with her.

"That would most likely be best," Thor agreed, folding his arms, and nodding. "He _did_ say that he was going to sleep."

"What…didn't he get any sleep last night?" asked Hermione, brow furrowing.

"As it seems, no," Thor said, trying to keep his tone mild.

"Oh," Hermione said, subdued now. She stared down at her plate, and for a moment, was silent. "I suppose I was thinking that he would be down any minute, and we could discuss—"

She waved her hand in an all-encompassing motion around the Great Hall, even though not everyone _was_ discussing the Heir of Slytherin, or the Chamber of Secrets.

Fred and George picked up several slices of bread, and then stood, moving off, presumably to work on further pranks. Thor tried not to shudder, but…had he not been victim of enough pranks during Loki's adolescence? The Twins were merciless.

"I didn't realise…." Hermione was biting her lip when Thor turned to her, to see what she was going to say. He waited for her. She even began to wring her hands. "I just thought…but then, I remembered…. Didn't I tell you what he said last year, before he went off to face Quirrell?"

No. She hadn't. But did he want to _know_?

"He said something about how he didn't think he was even a good person, let alone a good wizard. And what he said at the end…that he was glad to have been my friend, 'while it lasted'…. It sounded as if he expected to _die_. And his last words were that he wasn't good enough? That I should have more friends like you?"

She shook her head. "And then, before I could say anything, he went through the flames. And when we found him, I was just too worried, I guess, to think of what he'd said before. But now…" she closed her eyes. "I think I understand why you worry about him all the time."

Was he _that_ obvious? But what Hermione said…it was not a good sign. Was Harry _that_ insecure? It was rather like dealing with Loki all over again, only…Loki hadn't been _insecure_, had he? Just jealous. Thor didn't know how to treat Harry, anymore than he knew how to treat Loki. What should he do? How could he help? _Was_ he being overprotective—or not protective enough? (He _died_ again. _Last year_.)

He bowed his head, staring at the table before them.

"I just…and what Ginny said, about him not knowing any better. How is he to learn proper behaviour if we push him away any time he makes a mistake? I just…I mean, I didn't realise quite how his life has been, I suppose."

"Perhaps you ought to have come with Fred, George, and me, when we went to rescue him from the Dursleys."

Hermione teared up, and attempted to shove her fist into her mouth. Thor didn't understand the gesture, but then, Hermione was nothing like any of the girls he was used to. Not like Sif. Not like Natasha. Not even like Ginny. It made her more difficult for him to understand.

"I believe he is best left alone for the moment," said Thor, "as he is trying to sleep. I intend to check to make sure he is safe in an hour's time. You might come with me."

Hermione shrugged. It was a helpless little shrug, which was somewhat frustrating, but Thor sighed, understanding her difficulty, at the very least.

"In the meantime, what was it you wished to speak about?"

Hermione brightened at the question, and he braced himself for a little-understood lecture on the precepts of magic, the kind she usually shared with Harry, who inevitably looked either amused or bemused at her theories.

"I've had an idea! How to sneak into the slytherin common room without being recognised."

Thor wondered if he should point out the invisibility cloak that Harry possessed. Or did she mean to do this without Harry, as he disapproved of her theory? Or was there some reason the cloak itself wouldn't work…?

"Have you ever heard of Polyjuice Potion?" asked Hermione, leaning across the table towards him. He blinked, pulling his plate closer again, now that he had calmed down. Accidental magic was triggered by intense negative emotions, but concern did not count.

Polyjuice Potion…that term sounded slightly familiar. But he couldn't place it. Not even where he'd heard of it. Potions class, maybe?

"It's a potion that allows the drinker to borrow the form of another for an hour at a time. But it's considered dangerous, or rather, _tricky_, and the brewing is not recommended for less experienced brewers. But… well, I know that I could do it. I'm sure of it. But the recipe isn't in any of our school books. It's…."

She paused, and he had the sinking suspicion that he knew whither her sentence was bound.

She lowered her voice. "It's in a book called _Moste Potente Potions_. Which is in the Restricted Section."

There it was. Really, he wasn't the one to have this conversation with. Fleetingly, he wished that he could request the assistance of the other Avengers, but they were two decades away, yet. Tony still in the weapons trade. Steve still on ice. Who knew where the others were?

Despite the indignity of such a position, he buried his head in his hands, leaning his elbows on the table. He was _really_ not the ideal individual to ask for help in infiltrating the forbidden section of the library.

"You will need Harry's assistance," he informed her, deciding to be direct. He straightened up, and glanced around, surreptitiously, as if to check whether any had been paying attention. Hermione bit her lip.

"You must have some idea—"

"We do not possess this book yet, and therefore I can contribute no ideas concerning this potion. Nor is concealment and secrecy a skill that I possess. Your plan requires Harry's insight."

Hermione pouted, but let the subject go.

* * *

When she saw that Harry was, in fact, asleep, she seemed to have misgivings. She huffed, and Harry, at even that small noise, sat up, pulling aside the curtains around his bed.

"Hermione?" he asked, blinking. "What are you doing here? Or are we still not on speaking terms?"

He cocked his head, considering, and Hermione began to wring her hands again.

"You're so stupid!" she wept, and he blinked, frowning, as if he didn't recognise the meaning of the words. To be fair, that seemed to have come out of nowhere.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You're always getting yourself into dangerous situations! And pushing people away! Don't you understand that Ron and I care about you?"

"Ron, do _you_ understand why she's saying all this?" asked Harry, glancing at Thor, who was quite as bewildered as Harry.

"I believe she recently remembered something that you said at the end of last year, and—"

"There! I said something to you! And I'm sorry for being so harsh on you last night. Now get some sleep. I have something I need to discuss with you both."

"…I'm listening," Harry said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

"No. Go back to sleep. It can wait. I'll just discuss it with Ron."

Thor glanced at her, again. She _did_ remember that he had said that Harry was the individual to ask concerning this, right? But she seemed torn between regret concerning last night's argument, and a righteous need to save the world (or the school) from the machinations (whatever they were) of the Heir of Slytherin. Which would prevail—concern for her friend, or concern for the safety of the school?

Harry made the decision for her, standing as if the past hour were sufficient sleep for him to work with (perhaps it was—it was only the extended weight of a week shortchanged of sleep that had put Harry in such straits last year, right?), and picking up his school satchel. Then, he paused.

"Is this a _private_ sort of conversation?" he asked.

Hermione nodded.

"Then we shall just have to find an unused classroom. As there is no school today, there must be plenty of them."

He was already contributing idea to Hermione's plan, and he didn't even know what it _was_ yet.

And so, trying to ignore that nagging suspicion that Harry was not well enough to be wandering the school, he followed Harry back out the door, and they returned to breakfast, with Harry insisting that they leave the scheming for slightly later. It wasn't until later that it occurred to Thor that Harry was, in fact, looking after _him._


	10. Dobby's Bludger

In the aftermath of the petrification of Mrs. Norris, and the memory of needing a place to hide, Harry resolved to bring the invisibility cloak with him everywhere he went, henceforth. It seemed to be the ultimate tool for hiding, but it was no good to him up in the Gryffindor Tower (and it could be the more easily stolen, there). This carried with it the need to train himself to resist the sensible but counterproductive urge to disappear in Lockhart's class. He managed.

Harry was the one to come up with the plan of getting Lockhart (the airhead) to sign the note requesting _Moste Potente Potions_ for them, but that didn't mean he had to like it. Still, the thought of _Hermione_ coming up with a plan to brew an illegal (and it had to be illegal—why else would the only recipe be in a restricted access book?) potion was irresistible. At the very least, he would see whether or not she had the guts to follow through.

Ron was probably wondering about his enthusiasm, but he had the almost-perfect cover of being Harry, Seeker of Redemption to excuse his actions. And his enthusiasm. Still, by now they probably both knew him well enough to be suspicious, that he had ulterior motives.

Hermione, however, was, for the moment, a bit preoccupied with reading the recipe, and figuring out how she was going to go about brewing it.

Her conclusion that they would have to _steal some of the ingredients from Professor Snape's cupboard_, however, was, somehow, unexpected.

"Who are you, and what have you done with Hermione Granger?" he demanded to know. She was too busy fretting over the plan she was concocting to acquire said ingredients to pay him any heed, but Ron glanced his way, looking quite as lost as Harry felt, but not half as amused.

How far will she go to brew this potion? Apparently, we can cross breaking the law off the list of obstacles.

Harry stared out across the grounds, at the trees of the Forbidden Forest, some of them leafless and quivering in the wind, and realised that he had given no heed to practicing the _other_ sort of magic since Diagon Alley. That just would not do. But other things had been occupying his mind—Lockhart, quidditch, and the voice in the walls, speaking of murder. But he had just come to an idea, and was now feeling the consequence of ignoring practice for so long. It took a month to brew Polyjuice Potion, and Hermione would not begin brewing until she had all the ingredients. And she was saving those that she would have to steal for last.

But, perhaps, was there another option? He remembered what his mother had said—that she and Professor Snape had once been friends. And he remembered, further, that he had once managed to pull her into the outside world, but it had taken its toll on him. Just how good of friends had they been? Just what might Professor Snape be willing to pay, for closure, for the chance even to speak with her again? His mother spoke of him with regret, as if they had parted on bad terms. But who was responsible for the nature of that parting, for that falling out?

He wished that he'd had a chance to speak with his mother.

After much thought and consideration, and much practice besides, in out-of-the-way classrooms, in the middle of the night (usually) of the other kind of magic, Harry decided that he would save this particular means of dealing with Snape for another situation, and follow through with Hermione's plan to steal the ingredients. For one thing, he needed to ask his mother more about her relationship with Professor Snape. For another…well, it was always good to have _something_ up your sleeve, as a backup plan, and finally, _suppose it didn't work_? Then, Snape would have forewarning, and would know _precisely_ whom to suspect of stealing his boomslang skin (or whatever it was that Hermione was planning on stealing).

Meanwhile came their first quidditch match of the season, delayed on account of Malfoy's need to insinuate himself more thoroughly into the team (or whatever excuse they'd made). Hufflepuff versus Ravenclaw had taken the place of the usual October match.

Being November, it was a bleak and dreary autumnal day, but at least it wasn't raining. That was something. Nevertheless, Wood seemed almost… _intimidated_ by the set of new Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones that the slytherin team was using, although he tried to cover it up in his pre-match pep talk by saying something about showing them that "it wasn't the brooms, it was the people on them" that was important. Despite knowing that it was all show, the team was nevertheless galvanised. The match was brief of a necessity, and ended with Harry stealing the snitch out from under Malfoy's nose. _That_ was a satisfying sort of revenge. Or it would have been, had it not been for the circumstances of the match.

It was short of a necessity, not because of the superior equipment of the opposing team, but because there was a specific bludger that seemed to have it out for Harry. No matter where he went, or what he tried, it followed him all over the pitch. There were many narrow escapes, and Harry was obliged to tell Wood that the team should focus on scoring, and the Twins should focus on protecting the three chasers, and that he'd handle the bludger on his own.

If nothing else, if all else failed, he was no stranger to pain. Again, his unfortunate past served him well. The match resumed, and the chasers were scoring, which was good for them, but Harry couldn't pay any attention to the match, because he was still eluding the rogue bludger. He wished that players were allowed to carry wands during the game, at that moment, even though Malfoy would have found innumerable ways to use this to cheat. Right now, he'd even take the broken wand _that Ron was still using_, even though it might backfire on him, as it had several times on Ron. At least it _might_ provide some sort of defence.

He almost flew straight into Malfoy, and for once it would have been an accident. Malfoy opened up his usual line of taunts (really, are you going to mock someone for doing what is necessary to avoid being killed by a bludger?), but Harry wasn't even listening, because of the snitch hovering near Malfoy's ear.

He rushed Malfoy, Malfoy swerved to avoid a collision, and Harry chased the snitch downwards, which cut his peripheral vision down somewhat, which was how the bludger caught him unawares as it did.

He was fairly sure that he'd broken his arm, there, although he'd never managed to do that in all his years at the Dursleys (and despite Dudley's best efforts). He managed to not crash into the grass (which would have destroyed his broom. Oh, and probably caused him more damage), pulling up at the last second, and then swinging off. The world was fading in and out of focus as it usually only did when he'd gone several days without food. His arm throbbed, trying to bring to mind half-remembered torments, which he shoved aside with some violence.

He saw Hermione and Ron running towards him across the pitch (Ron leading, naturally), and strained to keep himself from fainting, or something equally humiliating. He smirked at Malfoy, who was glaring at him, and then turned when Malfoy's expression turned into a matching smirk at something (or rather, someone) behind him.

The pain of his injury was enough that he barely noticed unimportant things like the clicking of a camera shutter closing, and the bright light of its flashbulb. That would always be less important than avoiding the current catastrophe approaching him in the form of a grinning blond in robes of periwinkle blue. Could he not catch a break, or something?

"Broken arm, I see," said Lockhart, voice matter-of-fact. "Well, you're in luck! I happen to have sustained many injuries over the course of my adventures, and learnt how to heal them myself—can't always find a decent hospital in the further reaches of the world. Stay still, now—"

Harry, despite the haze of pain, recognised what he was about to do, and dodged the first flash of light. "No, thank you," he said. "I think I'd best see Madam Pomfrey."

He turned to Ron, with a silent plea. He was trying to be both diplomatic and observe common sense, which dictated that under no circumstances, including emergency, should Lockhart be allowed to attempt to repair his arm.

"Professor—" Ron began.

Lockhart ignored him. "This won't take but a moment, but if you don't hold still, I might make a mistake."

That sounded a threat. Harry turned from him to walk away. "No thank you, professor," he said.

He should not have turned his back on Professor Lockhart. A moment later, he felt something make impact with his arm, and when he glanced down at said arm, which was unusually wobbly, it took him a moment to figure out what had happened. Because yes, his arm didn't hurt, but…it also seemed to be lacking some of the necessary components of arms. Like bones. And while he couldn't be sure, owing to the complete disconnect, he thought his hand might now be in the same state.

"Oops…not to worry, that happens sometimes. I can just—"

"I think you have done more than enough," Ron said, folding his arms and bodily blocking Lockhart's aim. He turned his head to Harry, clearly torn between the two equally important needs to hinder Lockhart, and to escort Harry to the Hospital Wing.

Neville and Seamus appeared, instead, Seamus making a rather rude gesture at the incompetent teacher behind his back, and Hermione, wringing her hands, brought up the rear. They made for a strange, almost comedic, procession, but Harry was too busy thinking about what might have happened—what Lockhart had possibly done to his arm—to notice.

Creevey was still snapping photos, but the resentment he might feel for the younger boy was dwarfed by whatever emotion this was arising out of his now-humiliation (torn from the jaws of a rather satisfying triumph). Malfoy had the last hurrah, and _why had the bludger been coming after him, anyway_?

Ron caught up to them on the way to the Hospital Wing. Harry didn't have the focus to ask what he'd done with Lockhart. He didn't care. Ron's borrowed wand was fickle at best, and might have done anything from turned him into a toad to set him on fire. As long as Lockhart wasn't about to reappear, Harry didn't much care. Preferably, Lockhart was suffering something equally ignominious, but he'd settle for mere distraction, as long as he didn't have to see Lockhart before their next Defence class. And, knowing Ron and Hermione, Lockhart was merely suffering a mild inconvenience—perhaps called away by Dumbledore.

He tried to ignore the stares, or the way Colin Creevey trailed after them, still snapping pictures, as they traversed the (mercifully mostly empty) halls. The silence was due more to the absurdity of the current situation than any real exertion on the part of Seamus or Neville, but he was thankful for their company, anyway—even when Ron and Hermione joined the party. These latter two seemed to take their cues from Neville and Seamus, keeping silent.

Immediately upon their arrival at the Hospital Wing, Madam Pomfrey bustled over to them, clucking as she observed Harry's unnaturally…_bendy_ arm.

"You should have come straight to me!" she cried, when they had related the story. "Broken bones are easy enough to mend—" Neville nodded agreement at this, "—but to regrow bones entirely…I'm afraid you will have a rather painful night. You'll need a full beaker of SkeleGrow to replace all of those bones, and I'll see what I can find for the pain."

Harry didn't say that it didn't hurt right now. It would probably start right up again once he'd started regaining his bones. And nerves.

Seamus and Neville departed before he'd even received his beaker of foul-tasting medicine, their duties fulfilled, but Hermione and Ron remained, Ron glowering at nothing. He was rather alarming angry. It was probably part of the reason his death glares worked so well.

Harry decided to set aside thought for when he had the bones with which to write them down.

He took the first medicine, the revolting SkeleGrow, and then moved onto whatever pain remedy Madam Pomfrey had found in her cupboards.

"It isn't so bad," he said, in between the two servings. Hermione scoffed. Ron sat down in a nearby chair for visitors, and said nothing.

"I'll be fine. You should go…work on your homework, or something. I'm afraid I won't be half as much fun, asleep."

They might have made a response, but he chose that moment to take his dose of potion, and promptly fell fast asleep. Useful.

* * *

He awoke after several hours to gnawing pain in his arm, as if someone were hammering away at it. To judge by the dimmed lights, it must now be nighttime, when he ought to be asleep, anyway.

He quickly realised that two big green eyes were staring down at him, and it was this sixth sense of being watched that had woken him.

Of course, the eyes could belong to only one person: Dobby, currently engaged in daubing at Harry's forehead with a damp cloth. It was sort of creepy.

Harry shot bolt upright, dislodging Dobby, taking stock of the current status of his arms. He could move them independently, at least, but he suspected that it would be best to move his right arm as little as possible. Possibly it would affect the way the bones would grow, and he wasn't going to risk that.

"Dobby!" he hissed, wincing at a fresh twinge in the arm. "_What_ are you doing here? No, never mind that. Tell me what's going on here. You gave me a warning before I ever came to the station this year; you _must_ know _something_!"

"Oh, Master Harry Potter! Why did you not listen to Dobby's warnings? Dobby did everything he could to keep you out of danger, for he knew that the Chamber would be opened this year. He'd overheard plans to make Hogwarts a dangerous place indeed—"

Harry grimaced, and tried to flex his hand. Failed. "I don't suppose you could tell me _whom_ you overheard saying such things? Because the Chamber of Secrets _has_ been opened, Dobby, and everyone is in a panic over it."

Unless he was very much mistaken, Dobby wasn't listening. "That is why Dobby closed the barrier to the Platform, and when he went home, he had to iron his hands and leave them in the oven for five minutes, sir—" He held up heavily-swaddled hands, and Harry felt a twinge of pity, despite himself. Dobby once again seemed so earnest, so _well-intentioned_. But, wait a minute, had he just admitted to closing the barrier?

"Then _you_ closed the barrier to keep me out, to keep me from coming back to Hogwarts." Dobby nodded furiously, and Harry frowned. "And judging by your lack of surprise at my current condition, laid out in the Hospital Wing, you had something to do with the bludger that wouldn't stop attacking me, hmm? Did you realise it could kill me? Are you trying to kill me, Dobby?"

There. He'd asked it, flat out.

"No! No!" Dobby's eyes, already wide and bulbous, widened so far it was a miracle they didn't fall right out. "Dobby wanted Master Harry Potter injured enough to be sent home, sir! Better grievously injured, Harry Potter sir, than dead! Better grievously injured, than here when the attacks start!"

"And did you think I would just abandon my friends?" Harry demanded, his voice oozing cold authority without him even trying or realising. But Dobby was sincere in his desire to protect Harry, and when he flinched, Harry's voice softened, almost automatically. He knew what it was to be the cowering servant, living in constant fear.

"My best friend is a muggleborn, Dobby," he said, his voice soft, but no less dangerous for its deceptive gentleness. "She would be among those first on the list, if Slytherin's monster gets loose and starts killing people. Do you think that I—whom you claim to be a great, and noble wizard—would prefer to save myself, while my best friend was killed by a monster?"

"Oh, no, Master Harry Potter sir!" He looked as pathetic as it was possible for a creature to look, with his nose and eyes running, and his ears drooping straight down. "But Master Harry Potter—if he only knew what hope he brought to us lesser races…perhaps he would understand…He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was not kind to us lowly house-elves, Master Harry Potter, sir! And when you defeated him, it was a new dawn for us…."

"Well, I choose to stay here at Hogwarts. This is my home—not those Dursleys, and it was only a miracle that saved me from death this summer at their hands. Don't you see, Dobby? Even with a killer on the loose, I'm still safest _here_, with Albus Dumbledore, and other people who _care_ about me. I will not leave this school until the end of the school year forces my departure. And I _will not_ forsake my friends. What you can do, if you wish so badly to save my life—"

Dobby nodded eagerly, leaning forwards, as if spellbound. "Dobby. Tell me what you know of the Chamber of Secrets."

Dobby wilted. "Dobby cannot. A house-elf is bound by his bonds of servitude, Master Harry Potter, sir. We can't reveal our Masters' secrets. Dobby wishes that he could help Master Harry Potter, sir, but—"

"Peace, Dobby. I shall have to find that out on my own; very well. Can you tell me who your masters are?" Harry asked, raising his right hand to look at it. It looked as if it had some bones in it, now, at least. But perhaps Lockhart hadn't gotten rid of those.

Dobby drooped again.

"Dobby is a bad elf. Dobby is a very bad elf. All he can say is that his masters—his masters are _bad dark wizards_! Oh, no! Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!"

Harry recognised the signs, and, reaching out, he grabbed hold of Dobby's ankle before he could race off to find something to bang his head into.

"_Peace_, Dobby," he said, again.

"Dobby spoke ill of his masters, sir! Dobby must be punished."

"You didn't really say anything bad, though. I'm sure they'd be flattered to be called 'dark'."

"Masters would be in trouble with the Ministry if they knew what Master is doing. We would all be in trouble."

"Is there anything you _can_ tell me, Dobby?" he asked, attempting a reassuring, soothing voice. He had plenty of practice trying to calm Hermione down, after all. Might as well make use of it.

"Well…well, Dobby knows…Dobby must go now! Good luck, Master Harry Potter, sir!" Dobby said, and he abruptly disappeared. That must be how he came to and from Privet Drive, too. Harry didn't think more of it than that. He wouldn't get Hermione's lecture about how you couldn't apparate or disapparate from Hogwarts until next year.

But why had he disappeared?

The answer came only a few seconds later, the cause of the abruptness of Dobby's disappearance. Dumbledore entered the room, along with McGonagall, not yet ready for bed. Between them stood a stretcher of sorts, and Harry had a sinking feeling. He felt the disturbance in the air as Madam Pomfrey rushed past him to see who had entered the ward now.

"Can it be…another petrification?" he heard her mutter, despite how low her voice was (out of courtesy to him, who was supposed to be sleeping, perhaps?).

Dumbledore sighed. "I'm afraid so. Still…at first, I feared the worst. It is a good thing I happened to stumble into him when I had a sudden hankering for a glass of water before bed…."

"We think he was trying to sneak in to see Potter," McGonagall sniffed, as if this action were obviously foolhardy and dangerous at such a time. Harry's heart might have briefly stopped. Whom did he know of, who would take such risks to visit him—sneaking out after curfew was bad enough (on account of Filch and Peeves), and although they didn't know that there was a predator around (probably, he tried to remember Dumbledore's explanation on November First as to what had caused Mrs. Norris's state)?

And beneath that sense of foreboding, a twinge of guilt, despite the injustice of accusation: Had Harry been awake, he wondered, would he have heard the voice, again?

"Who is it?" asked Madam Pomfrey, bending over to glance at him, whoever was on the stretcher. Harry dared to breathe again, certain that she would have recognised either of his two friends on sight. And she had said _he_, so Hermione was off the list, anyway. Still, there was Neville to consider…and Dean…. Harry, with everyone facing away from him, dared to sit up, and peer across the room to where the body still lay on the stretcher.

He swallowed, hard, sitting back abruptly. Someone he recognised, indeed. Colin Creevey, clutching his camera, even now. Part of him was relieved, glad it was a pest like Creevey, and not someone he cared about—not Ron, or Hermione. That made him feel even worse. Creevey was so annoying with his incessant hero-worship, and his stalking…but he didn't deserve to be turned to stone.

"Do you suppose that he got a picture of his attacker?" asked McGonagall, voice still stiff with disapproval, but milder than he had ever heard it, as she stared down at Colin, who, after all, was one of her own students, one of her charges, one whom she had failed to protect. Harry knew how that felt.

In response, Dumbledore prised the camera out of Colin's now solid grip, gently, gently….

He opened up the back of the camera, where the film could be inserted, wound, or removed, and the film burnt to ashes even as he pulled out the spool.

"Good gracious, Albus!" McGonagall cried, sounding shocked, and her voice rather louder than it should have been. "What could do _that_? Just what does all this mean? You must have some idea what this means!"

Dumbledore sighed, setting the camera, empty now, back down next to Colin, after closing the door for the film once more.

"It means that the Chamber of Secrets has indeed been opened again," he said, his tone no longer its usual, jovial self.

"But Albus!" protested Madam Pomfrey. "Who could do such a thing?"

"The question is now _who_, but _how_," said Dumbledore, a hint of an edge entering his tone. From what he could see in the dimmed lighting, neither Madam Pomfrey nor Professor McGonagall had any idea what he was talking about.

And Harry didn't much understand either, only…from the way Dumbledore spoke, the Chamber of Secrets must have been opened at some point in his lifetime, before. He knew or suspected who the Heir of Slytherin was, and for whatever reason, believed that he or she…what, did not have an Heir, and was working from afar? Would not have passed on his or her knowledge of how to open the Chamber? What?

Harry found it difficult to get back to sleep, yet again, that night. He had too much to think on, to analyse, and to dwell on.


	11. Wherever You Least Want Him

The news of recent petrification of Colin Creevey spread through the school like wildfire, and, hot on its heels, the revelation that, _for whatever reason_, the professors at Hogwarts had decided that it would be a good idea if students knew how to defend themselves. Harry did not much like fighting—he could fight well enough, he conceded, and he did not go _out of his way_ to avoid a confrontation, but he was not filled with battle lust—yet he whole-heartedly approved of this newest development. Anything that would hinder the Heir of Slytherin…and his monster. He, Ron, and Hermione signed up for the class immediately, probably each for very different reasons.

Harry was sure that, sooner or later, the monster would come after him—that seemed to be his new lot in life, having cast aside the old one of being the Dursleys' personal punching bag and scapegoat. Ron would want to get in on the fighting. Hermione just enjoyed learning things. Yes, he thought he'd broken that up correctly.

It was a good plan all together—not only did it help protect the school, but it helped them to bear with the panic running rampant through the school—fortified them, gave them a distraction, something to look forward to. And even Harry was looking forwards to it.

He didn't _need_ the reminder that a suddenly-cheerful Ron gave him that Flitwick had been a renowned, champion dueler in his youth. He remembered well enough from last year. Fingers crossed—or at least a desperate hope that it would be Flitwick, or Dumbledore teaching the class. He was sure that either of them had more than enough experience to direct such an extracurricular class. Dumbledore was on the Chocolate Frog cards for, among other things, his defeat of the Dark Wizard Grindelwald (who must have been the immediate predecessor in wizarding supervillains to Voldemort himself).

Of course, his luck being what it was, this was not how events turned out. Their instructor was not Dumbledore. Nor was it Professor Flitwick. Indeed, they had two instructors, and neither of them were Dumbledore or Flitwick. Instead, they were the very last people he would have chosen to have given him instruction in a duel. Hagrid had been expelled in his third year, but give Hagrid the task, even, over these two: Snape, and, perhaps worse, _Lockhart_.

Harry might, in other circumstances, have been reassured by the number of students who groaned as each professor revealed himself on stage, or the way that the grumbling and groaning renewed itself when Lockhart (seeming oblivious to any lack of enthusiasm on his audience's part) introduced himself, and Professor Snape, "who has graciously accepted the role of secondary instructor—don't worry, folks! You'll still have your professor when I'm done with him!"

Apparently, some people had been hoping that, if they had to be instructed by these two, one of them might at least…_remove_ the other. There was another chorus of groans at this news, louder than the previous wave—Professor Snape was hated by most of the school. Harry caught sight of Draco Malfoy frowning at the widespread hatred of his pet professor. Harry glared at Malfoy, and then swiftly redirected his gaze to the floor. It would be just his luck if he was paired off with Malfoy simply for making eye contact. At least he couldn't be expected to duel the floor…he didn't think. Although, with _Lockhart_ as an instructor….

Why, why, why, why, _why_ Lockhart and Snape? How did they manage to show up in all the wrong places, at all the wrong times?

No, he thought he'd probably skip all subsequent meetings of this club. If, indeed, it _survived_ its first meeting. Perhaps people would be so disappointed that, everyone having the same idea as he himself, there would _be_ no further meetings.

"Now, the first spell we're going to teach you is how to disarm your opponent. After all, an opponent without his wand will have a harder time fighting you…although there is such a thing as wandless magic…."

Harry filed this last bit of information away to think on later. After all, just because Lockhart said it didn't mean that it wasn't true. Was that what accidental magic was—or was that a third category of magic? Was it what he'd been doing at the Dursleys? Perhaps that was all the other magic was…perhaps wands were more than just a conduit—perhaps they changed the makeup of spells, somehow.

But these were thoughts for later. Right now, his focus was, in spite of circumstances, fixed upon the two professors. Just because Snape was a terrible human being didn't mean that he was an incompetent teacher. Of spells.

Oh, whom was he kidding? He probably knew his stuff, but you'd never know it, because he'd go around the room, making all the non-slytherins too miserable to focus. And keep all the secrets of how to actually duel to himself, content to let the (clearly) incompetent Defence professor take charge, perhaps revealing one or two useful spells before fizzling out.

And yet, Harry paid attention anyway, watching as Snape pointed the wand in his right hand directly at Lockhart, a hard glitter in his eyes, crying "_expelliarmus_!". Lockhart flew backwards, landing hard at the end of the makeshift stage erected for just this lesson, his wand flying across the room, where Snape caught it with an ease and boredom that made this all look old hand to him, as if it were so familiar, it wasn't worth mentioning.

Lockhart, to his credit, brushed himself off as he stood, with a little laugh at himself, and said, "Yes, yes, excellent! Well done, Professor Snape!" Then he ruined it by continuing, "Or course, if I had wanted to block it, it would have been all too easy to do so…. You just wave your wand like so, and—"

Lockhart waved his wand in an oddly fluid movement, then dropped it, crying, "ah, sorry, yes, my wand's just a bit excited…", not seeming embarrassed or put out in the slightest. He glanced over at Snape to catch sight of a death glare even _he_ could not mistake for admiration, and Harry felt a twinge of…what, pride, in their (erstwhile?) least favourite professor, who at least was not a fraud, and genuinely knew his subject?

Snape couldn't be aiming to kill—if he had been, Lockhart would be dead by now. Harry found himself disappointed, realising in that moment that, much as he and Snape shared a mutual distaste for one another, _he still rooted for Snape over Lockhart_. This revelation so alarmed him that he almost missed it when Lockhart proposed that they call up students to demonstrate the spell Lockhart had just botched, and the one Snape had just performed seamlessly. And of course, Lockhart being Lockhart, he volunteered _Harry_….

Well, Harry and Neville, but Harry had felt his gut clench the moment Lockhart'd mentioned student demonstration. He'd known he'd be one choice—how often had Lockhart made him perform scenes from one of his appalling works of fiction masquerading as textbooks?

But at least Neville had poor aim. If Harry were to be cast in the role of Lockhart (and he suspected he would be; Lockhart would be unable to resist the chance to further associate their names, and therefore their fames), he would prefer to be matched up against someone who stood little chance of successfully performing the spell. And Neville would have the benefit of hands-on experience, and individual attention.

Naturally, this meant that Snape had to interfere, with a jab at Neville thrown in. And Harry, despite just thinking about Neville's poor aim and…unpromising performance, nevertheless bristled, as he was expected to.

And then, of course, such thoughts were driven from his mind, when Snape suggested Malfoy instead. Yep. That was Snape alright. Malfoy, after all, would never limit himself to that one, hardly innocuous, spell. And he was (Harry grudgingly admitted) far more competent than Neville. Harry prepared to dodge something nasty and unpredictable, squared his shoulders, and, with a glance at his friends (their concern for him was both palpable and gratifying), he ascended the stage, left hand steadying his right, as he suspected that he was even now beginning to tremble with the rage that only the joint duo of Malfoy and Snape seemed able to provoke in him. Thus far.

Lockhart being Lockhart, he either didn't notice, or explained away, the animosity currently making it difficult to breathe in that corner of the room.

"All right, Harry," Lockhart said, coming over to give his orders in Harry's ear. Harry hated receiving orders, but there was little worse in that department than receiving them from an incompetent ignoramus who nevertheless held a position of authority over him. And Lockhart didn't even try to teach him the "counterspell" he'd been "attempting" before Harry and Malfoy were called up. It probably didn't even exist. He had probably hoped that Harry would be able to come up with one on the spot.

"Now, just do as I did, Harry," was all the recommendation or advice Lockhart was willing to offer.

"What, drop your wand?" Harry retorted. This was not quite fair—Lockhart had made a sort of squiggling motion, too—but he felt completely justified; he was _not_ up here by choice, and Lockhart was _always_ fixating on him.

Lockhart ignored him. He tried again. "Professor, I don't suppose you could show me that spell again, first?" he asked, with maximal politeness. Malfoy, across the hall, nodded to Snape's suggestion (which Harry doubted was _expelliarmus_), and sneered at Harry.

"What, scared, Potter?" he asked, tone so thoroughly mocking that Harry clenched his left fist tightly around his right forearm, so rigidly that neither could move.

"_Hardly_," he hissed in return. Rather odd, he might have thought at another time, that Malfoy was the slytherin, and yet he, Harry, was doing the hissing.

Or maybe he wouldn't have. Perhaps that presumed foreknowledge of the coming catastrophe.

When Lockhart remembered Harry's existence, the first thing he did was to instruct the two of them on proper duel form. "First, you bow," said Lockhart. Harry glanced over at Snape, possibly for support, but this was Snape. His expression and posture betrayed nothing.

He inclined his head, three second count, a bow between peers. Malfoy showed him no such courtesy, of course, because he had no respect, and not even the dregs of what might be considered chivalry. But since Harry was borrowing the Asgardian notion of the term….

He was beginning to think that perhaps he had no idea what chivalry was, really, or else all of Asgard, had they gone to Hogwarts, would have been sorted into Gryffindor. Daring? Yes. Nerve? _Of course_. Chivalry? Evidently. But you could have all of those traits, and be also a scholar, or a judge, or a…_traitor_….

He scowled at that thought, and brought his mind back to the present, where Lockhart was still trying to convince Malfoy to observe basic manners. But it was as Harry had said himself, last year: Malfoy had nothing of the sort; his own parents must have realised that trying to instil him with respect for anything he held in low regard was a waste of their time. At last, even Lockhart gave up his insistence that Malfoy observe the niceties of the duel form.

Harry paused, cocking his head. "You really should bow, you know," he said, ignoring Malfoy's answering glare. He made as if he were thinking, removing his left hand from where it clutched his right arm, to tap his chin.

"Ah, I'm terribly sorry. I forgot—in order to bow, you need to actually have a spine. How terribly insensitive of me. I should have remembered that, as a snake, you're an invertebrate. You can hardly be expected to bend what—"

Snape silenced him with a sharp look, but Harry just gave an innocent smile and a wave, as if he had no idea what he might have said wrong, pretending that he didn't hear the laughter from the crowd, those who knew and despised Malfoy (rarely as much as he).

Malfoy frowned, scowled, and then inclined his head slightly, for half a second. Progress. Still, it was the most progress they could expect to make, when it was clear he wouldn't observe any of the rules. At all.

Possibly not even school rules, although it never got that far. Instead, Lockhart moved on, telling them to stand _here_, thus, and then moving to give similar instructions to the other. Harry felt his normal hatred of Malfoy began to settle, in the manner of sediment in still water, into something milder. Possibly the bite of impatience, and boredom. He glanced briefly at the ground, but knew better than to take his eyes off Malfoy for any noticeable length of time. Especially not with Snape whispering in his ear, again.

"And hold your wand down at your side, thus. Be ready to lift your arm when we tell you to begin. That's how it is. Yes, but this is not a real duel. That will do. Now, when I say begin, Mr. Malfoy will cast the Disarming Spell, and then we will switch, and you can disarm Mr. Malfoy, and we will let you go back to your friends. Very well, on the count of three, then."

Harry closed his eyes, for a second, bracing himself. Malfoy, judging by last year's flying lesson, would probably begin on "two". He needed to prepare himself to dodge whatever spell Malfoy actually cast, and he needed to do that, _now_.

Lockhart and Snape stood back on the stage, Lockhart with wand inexplicably drawn, as Snape surveyed the audience with what looked to be profound boredom.

"Alright, then, boys, are you ready? Remember: this is all for show." Yeah, right. "No hard feelings! Now, one…two…_three_!"

It was something of a surprise that Malfoy did, in fact, wait for the count of three to raise his wand, and flick it in a downwards motion, but by then, Harry had already cried, "_expelliarmus_!"

Unfortunately, that was at the same time that Malfoy said, "_sserpenssortia_!" It was impossible to tell, what with Malfoy's drawl, how many 's's there were in that spell, exactly. Two? Four? Six?

Harry's reaction time was slowed by his astonishment that Malfoy had even obeyed the rules, and perhaps a lingering, vain hope that Malfoy would have the decency (and intelligence) to at least keep with it whilst people were watching. Still, the wand flew out of Malfoy's hand, and Harry caught it, ignoring Lockhart's sputtering protestation—something about how this was not what they had planned at all.

_And does a __**battle** __generally__ go according to plan?_ Harry's inner sarcastic voice quipped. He wished it didn't sound so much like Loki.

He was too distracted (he would later claim) by the entire sequence of events, that his mind had to slow down, stop, rewind recent happenings in his mind. Because what had Malfoy's oh-so-fearsome spell _done_? It had no immediately noticeable effects upon his person: no warts, no changes of appearance, no sudden craving for peanuts—not even a jet of light that hit him. Perhaps it was a dud….

And then he noticed movement at his feet—a long, large black snake of some sort, quite possibly magical, and, if he were to guess, poisonous. He watched it slither along the floor towards him, and froze.

Inevitably, his thoughts would lead him into all that research done at the library. But his first reaction was to think of the poor boa constrictor at the zoo, trapped in its cage, estranged from its homeland and kin, alone but for annoying miscreants, the Dudleys and Piers Polkisses of the world, banging upon the glass of its cage. He remembered how friendly the snake had been, pleasant, pleased to find a human who understood it. Not many witches or wizards went to the zoo, it seemed.

It must have been accidental magic that had caused the glass of the cage to disappear, but that small conversation he'd had with the snake…perhaps a fourth category of magic?

He became aware of a flurry of emotions, buffeting him about in a net woven with nails. Confusion, pain, anger, curiosity, fear.

Were they the emotions of the snake? Why would he be able to sense those?

And that was when he remembered the Midgard Serpent, by some accounts, one of Loki's children. The prince of the palace had no children, and yet…perhaps something still bound that one to serpents? Did it bind Harry also, or was there some explanation of which he was unaware?

He realised that he was rather unsteady on his feet, now. He glanced to the side to see Snape standing by, lazily watching the snake's approach, confident despite the two wands Harry was currently holding. He glanced at Malfoy, who seemed a bit put out at the temporary loss of his newest wand, but his sense of accomplishment seemed to outweigh that, judging by the crossed arms, relaxed posture, the _smirk_.

Harry, coming to a decision, glanced down at the snake, remembering the trip to the zoo, this time attempting to make eye contact with it. But before he could, of course, Lockhart, recovering from his shock, rushed forwards, crying,

"Don't worry! I'll take care of that!" He waved his wand, and the snake rose three feet in the air before falling back to the ground with a thud. Harry winced in sympathy. It helped that a jolt of pain lanced along his body, perhaps an echo of the snake's pain, frustration, anger, despair, _fear_—

The snake went slithering off at a good pace, now, oozing through the crowd, desperately seeking for shelter. One of Harry's fellow second years stood in the way, and the snake, full of panic and pain, reared up to bite.

"_Stop!_" Harry cried, jumping off the side of the platform and running off after said snake. "_Don't hurt him!_"

The boy was pale as a ghost, staring between Harry, who gave him a feeble smile that he hoped still provided some comfort, and the snake, which glanced at Harry, who kept his thoughts very calm and mild, and watched as the snake curled up like a coil of rope. Reassured by the presence of one who understood (safe, secure, support, protection), the snake's thoughts and emotions stilled as its body did, and Harry breathed a sigh of relief.

And then the hufflepuff boy he'd just saved, possibly from poisoning, found his voice.

"You!" he said, pointing at Harry, who was still smiling sort of vaguely. The smile fell at the tone, the vitriol, the fear latent behind the accusation in that voice. "You…you _freak_!" the boy stuttered, and Harry froze, thinking of a thousand different times those words had been followed by pain, loneliness, fear.

Starvation. Harm. Neglect.

And before he could recover, the boy continued, "How—how dare you set a snake on me!" the boy demanded, and Harry frowned. It wasn't he; if anyone were to blame, it was Lockhart. Or Malfoy. Or Snape. He opened his mouth to point out that he'd been trying to _save_ him.

"You're a monster," the boy spat, and Harry flinched, his mind doing an about face, veering off into even more dangerous thoughts. Memories. He thought of Loki, the odd one out, the _changeling child_, as he'd put it himself in his dreams. Always the odd one out, but never fully appreciating _how_ different he was until that day.

And that had been it. The catalyst, that set the groundwork for all the sorrows that came after, including Loki's _death_.

He thought of it all, in that brief second—the Chitauri Invasion, New Mexico, the Avengers—and then he turned, and fled, uncaring if it were suspicious. Uncaring if it were rude. Uncaring if Snape took a hundred points. He didn't even realise he'd just shown a weakness.

If anyone called out after him, to _wait_, to _stop_, to _speak to them_, he didn't notice.

He fled, seeking for the solace that came of having a moment to yourself, to think, to plan, to analyse, to calm down, with no one watching. To _break down_ with no one the wiser.

He leant against the wall of the door leading to the Gryffindor Tower, wondering how he'd gotten there so quickly. His breathing was shaky, but he didn't know whether to be furious (indignant), frightened, or just _hurt_, at the accusation, at the fact that anyone at Hogwarts, even in the passion of the moment, could think so little of him.

A noise. He stilled himself as completely as he could, trying to be a human chameleon, pretending he wasn't even there.

"Harry?" asked a familiar voice. Of course they'd followed him. Of course.

"Leave me be, Ron," he said, his voice too level. Too calm. Ron would never fall for that, now would he?

Sure enough: "Harry, we must talk. You do not yet understand fully the gravity of your situation."

"Come on, Harry…we'll talk in the common room…it should be mostly empty, this time of day, and I found a spell to block noise—"

It didn't matter if the noise was blocked, though, did it? Whatever it was that made this situation dire, it would be all over school the next day. That was just how Hogwarts _was_.

But he slumped, and let Ron and Hermione lead him into Gryffindor Tower. They climbed the stairs into the (empty) common room, and took their seats.

"Let me first say that the entire school does _not_ agree with Finch-Fletchey," Ron said, leaning back, arms folded, in his standard,"thinking" pose. "You might not have noticed how swift Dean, Neville, and Seamus were to come to your defence. Indeed there are those who would have prevented your exit, had those three not detained them. Hermione and I would also have defended you, understand, but we thought it better to take the opportunity to make you aware of your current…predicament."

"What he means, Harry," Hermione cut in, when Ron paused to take a breath. He did not seem to begrudge her. "Well, what he means is: _why didn't you tell us you could speak parseltongue_? I mean, speak to _snakes_?"

Harry shrugged, uncertain, still, why this was a "predicament". "I only did the once, before. There was a boa constrictor at a zoo—I'd never been before, and he was a very nice snake. Told me he'd never even _been_ to Brazil—"

"A boa constrictor told you that it had never been to Brazil?" asked Ron, sounding a bit nonplussed at the current course of the conversation.

"I mean, why does it matter? It's innocuous, and I bet lots of people can do it—"

He paused, seeing Hermione shaking her head, and Ron resting his head in _his_ hands.

"Oh, no, I believe you will find that the ability is quite rare," said Ron, glancing up at Harry with an expression alarmingly like pity. Harry _hated_ pity.

"It matters, Harry," Hermione continued, voice bracing, as if what she were about to say pained even her. Harry had a sinking feeling. "It matters because the last known parselmouth is Salazar Slytherin himself. That's why his is the house of the snakes."

And that meant…. "People will think I'm his descendant," he said, understanding boring its way through the maze recent events had made of his thoughts. "His _heir_."

Silence for a moment. Harry had to break it. "But that's ridiculous! I can't be his heir. Just because I speak this '_parseltongue_'…."

"I think you'll find that hard to prove," Hermione retorted, voice grim. "After all, he lived over a thousand years ago. For all we know, you could be."

Well, _that_ complicated things.


	12. The Outcasts of Gryffindor

Harry couldn't help endless reflection upon the events at the dueling club, the next day. Again and again, he turned over the events in his mind, trying to figure out what he could have done differently, what he had done wrong. He analysed his own motivations: why had he fled? That made him look suspicious, as if he had something to hide.

But in that moment…he hadn't known _what_ he would do. Would he lash out at the hufflepuff ingrate who had dared to call him a monster? Was it an offended dignity, wounded pride, that had forced him to leave before he hurt someone? Was it the sense that perhaps the boy had inadvertently invoked the madness? Or was it what he suspected it was: a learnt reaction from years of living with the Dursleys. Insult is here, and pain is never far behind that. Fight or flight. You can't fight, and therefore…_flee_.

Did that make him a coward? But the fact was, the thought of pain, as he'd noticed before, was now inextricably connected to Thanos. It was all tied into a frustrating knot. All arrows seemed to point back to Loki's torture at the hands of Thanos, however. Both what had precipitated those events—that first cause—or the effects. One way or another, he was driven by a need not to examine that possible past too closely. The strength of a completely reasonable desire to reject it all.

Such thoughts meant he would have been in a…_difficult_ mood, even had the school not, as a whole, turned on him.

Already, true to form, word had spread throughout the school—_Potter is a parselmouth_—by lunch. People who had previously been, if not overly friendly, at the very least tolerant, started avoiding him, casting suspicious glances in his direction if he ever even came close. Most of these were hufflepuffs, which was the house most saturated with muggleborns. It was…disheartening.

Perhaps to take his mind off things, Hermione brought them up to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, which, as it turned out, was the place where the message had first appeared. Indeed, you could still see it clearly shining on the wall.

"Since you are now the focus of the school's suspicion _again_," she shook her head, disgusted, "it doesn't matter if we show up here to investigate a little. Perhaps, if we can figure out who _is_ the heir…."

She did not voice her suspicions that the heir was Malfoy again, but he knew that she was thinking it. "And also… I read over the recipe for Polyjuice Potion, which takes a month to brew, and I thought: 'where better to brew it than here, the bathroom where no one willingly goes'. You just have to find a way to make Myrtle keep her mouth shut…."

The water had been cleaned up, naturally, from that night, but, despite being the middle of the day, the corridor looked much as it had then. Sunlight streamed in feebly through a window set high into the wall. illuming a small area of the corridor, its range small, as if this corridor defied light. A trail of spiders climbed up the wall, out from the window. He blinked. Single file. That was a bit weird.

He glanced at Ron, who had yet to notice the spiders, and then turned to Hermione.

"Hermione! Look at this! Have you ever seen spiders behave…thus?"

Hermione did not remember Ron's arachnophobia (had she been there when he'd made his confession? Harry couldn't recall), or, in her excitement, temporarily overlooked it, calling Ron over. At the word "spiders", he drew back. Then, he glanced at Harry, glanced at Hermione, and then straightened up, marching over to the window as a man might to the gallows. Harry suppressed a smile, shaking his head.

"I am…not in the habit of watching spiders," he reminded Hermione, gently.

"Oh! I forgot! " she cried, hand flying to her mouth. "I'm sorry, Ron!"

"This is more important," Ron said mildly, glancing at her, and then back at the spiders. He seemed…resigned. "No. I have never seen spiders behave in such a way before, that I have noticed. They seem very…focused."

Focused probably was the word, but it wasn't of any use to them. The spiders had a goal, but that told them nothing.

"I suppose we couldn't expect anything…and perhaps it was a coincidence that the first petrification occurred here. I wish we knew where Creevey was found…."

Hermione shouldn't sound so disappointed.

Hermione took stock of the premises with a practiced eye, and then emerged to where the boys stood guard at the entrance, waiting for her to finish her inspection.

"You know," she said, sounding vaguely amused, "you two are going to have to come in here to help me with the potion. I can hardly follow all the instructions all on my own—I'll need someone to help me chop fresh ingredients…and such. You might as well come in and have a look around…Myrtle's not here. But Harry is probably our best bet for getting on her good side. He's good with people."

Harry suddenly remembered the summer he'd spent at The Burrow, how he'd tormented Ginny until she'd cried.

"…Perhaps not," he said, scuffing his feet. "Ask Ginny. I think I'm horrible with girls."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Really? I've never heard Parvati or Lavender have a bad word to say about you, and you've always been kind to me. And I saw how you managed Myrtle at the Deathday Party. Did much better than anyone I've ever _seen_ before. I think she didn't quite completely disapprove of you. Before I saw that, I would have said that was impossible. If you just treat her with the same…respect? I'm sure she'd listen to you…."

"But Ginny—" he began again, as Ron looked on, with folded arms, and raised eyebrows.

"Perhaps Ginny is the exception to the rule," Hermione said, with a small smile that Harry couldn't understand. He dismissed it as unimportant.

"I shall do my best," he said.

And somehow, he and Ron found themselves entering the rather ordinary-looking bathroom after Hermione. It was, in fact, a completely unremarkable-looking bathroom, exactly alike to the one in which they'd saved Hermione from a troll last year. She'd come a long way since then. He had to hand it to her.

"…It's a bathroom," he said. There was nothing else that could be said.

"Myrtle floods it sometimes," Hermione said. "Be sure to wear your thicker shoes for this. And I know it's rather dingy, but…."

Sanitary. He hoped. This bathroom had an out-of-order sign on it, but it looked despite that rather well-kept.

They were in there for only a minute or so before they retreated back into the corridor. Harry let out a deep breath, as if he'd held it the entire time he'd been in the bathroom.

Well, at least Hermione was smiling.

* * *

The next step was to steal ingredients from Snape's personal store. Naturally, this would have to be done during potions class—when else would they have anything like justification for their presence (plausible deniability). Harry prepared for the coming task with due diligence and forethought. He knew the weakest part of the plan was the expectation that Ron would somehow be able to feign innocence and ignorance of the entire event, when he was acting…_guilty_, even now. That would never do.

When class began, he stationed a jar of frog spleens just near enough that he could accidentally knock into it, and near enough the edge of the table that it could fall to the floor and break. Ron was too busy fretting over The Plan to notice, which was just as well, probably.

He'd anticipated being somewhat…_alarmed_ at the loud noise of the firework exploding in Goyle's cauldron, but had underestimated the effect it would have on him. Loud noise: impending violence, either way. War. Perhaps. But more likely, the heavy pudgy fist of a man whose girth was _almost_ all fat. Blows from that hand were merciless and harsh, and hurt for days….

Or it could be Aunt Petunia, the sharp meeting of bony hand with wooden door the signal that the day's miseries were about to begin.

He didn't notice knocking the jar to the floor, didn't quite hear it break. He didn't see the swelling solution splatter across the room. He barely noticed Snape speak, in his lowest, deadliest voice, as he fished out the still sparking firework.

"When I discover who did this, I will personally see that he is expelled."

Snape's eyes swept the room as he spoke, but by the end, they'd found and settled upon Harry. The accusation was clear in his look. Harry did not make eye contact. He looked down at the floor, noticing the spilt jar, the shards of glass, and grabbed a rag, muttering a quiet "_reparo_" to clear up the broken glass. Much safer than in a muggle home. Much safer than all the times he'd broken glass at the Dursleys.

"What is the matter with Potter?" snapped Snape, betraying his own hidden prejudice, the assumption that Harry was at fault. He dragged his mind into the situation at hand. Ron turned away from the fiasco currently surrounding Snape to glance at Harry, who would never admit after that he _was_ pale and shaking.

"Harry," Ron said. Harry flinched. Too soon. Ron looked away from Harry, meeting Snape's gaze. "That loud noise, it must have disturbed him. He doesn't do well with such loud noise. And I think he might be less…adaptable than usual, owing to the current state of this school."

It had been a bit of a sacrifice, but it was worth it. Hermione stealing potions ingredients was not the thought at the forefront of Ron's mind. He could answer Snape's questions, and even if—as Harry had read there were such—Snape was one of those wizards who could read minds, he would glean little information not directly pertinent to Harry's welfare.

"I broke the jar of frog spleens. I'm sorry; I'll replace them, I promise," he said, almost hyperventilating, still half at Number Four.

Ron, in response, joined him on the floor, and began to assist him cleaning them up. "I am more concerned about _you_," he confessed. "I had not realised—"

"I'll be fine," Harry cut in. "Just…just give me a moment. I just…it made me think of Privet Drive. But I think you're right. It's not just the noise; it's everything _else_. All the tension throughout school because of the monster loose and petrifying people, and the way the whole school except Gryffindor is shunning me now…."

"We shall always be on your side, Hermione and I," Ron vowed, and then blinked several times, turning back to watch Snape, currently more than occupied with handing out antidotes. Ron realised that he'd forgotten what Hermione was doing. Harry saw the dawning realisation cross his face, and his own mouth tried to quirk into a smile, despite that he was still all nerves, shaking, and faint as if he'd spent seven days in the cupboard—

He shook his head, grimacing, but nodded to Ron. _Yes_, he silently said. _I did that on purpose. Aren't you proud of me_?

Since when was _that_ one of his concerns? Again, a stirring suspicion. Ron cast in the role of the older brother, and Harry had, unthinking, followed the script. But at least dwelling on such ominous thoughts kept him away from Number Four, kept him aware enough to notice Hermione return from the storeroom, out of the corner of his eye. Distracted him enough that he could nod and smile at her as if nothing were wrong, before turning to Ron with the silent plea that he not tell Hermione of his recent minor breakdown.

He would not, Harry was sure. He wondered if Thor would have kept silence for Loki, had Loki ever revealed such shameful weakness. He decided he probably wouldn't have.

* * *

This success was one of the few bright points of the current phase of the year. Christmas was coming, and Harry was already as prepared for it as he was ever going to be. He still hadn't given much thought as to what he believed—he'd quite deliberately shunned thinking of such, as a matter of fact.

Hogwarts—the other two houses, at least—got thoroughly into the Christmas spirit a bit early by shunning Harry and assuming he was Slytherin's Heir, out to slaughter the muggleborns.

Fred and George found this idea amusing, and teased Harry about it incessantly. He tried to laugh at their jokes, but the hufflepuff barbs were biting into a thorny problem a bit too close to his heart, and he wished that everyone, especially the Twins, would just not mention it again.

Of course, Percy was fussing endlessly over Ginny, thinking that her unusual pallor and fatigue were signs of fever, instead of distress. It was pretty obvious that she was actually concerned about all the muggleborns who were potential victims (foodstuff?) for the monster of Slytherin. That did not stop Percy from forcing a "Pepper Up Potion" down her throat, which made smoke come out her ears, and generally brought _up_ her temperature, but did nothing to quell her general listless misery. Harry felt for her, despite his current renewed status of Hogwarts Pariah.

One of the definite downsides of being this sort of pariah—it had taken him a while to realise that his ostracism this year was different from last—was that, as he was under suspicion of criminal conduct, those around him tended to keep at least one wary eye on him at all times, lest he do something suspicious or threatening in any way. At least last year, his unpersoning had allowed him to go places other people could not. It was only his knowledge of how not to stand out, how to go about undetected, minimising his presence in any given location, that enabled him to sneak off with Hermione and Ron to work on the Polyjuice Potion, say. Which was itself, in addition to the sudden hostility of the students of Hogwarts, cutting into his ability to practice the _other magic_.

At least the boys in his house in his year all stood by him—Neville, Dean, and Seamus stood up for him against the rest of the school. He even caught Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil , who were usually quite mild-mannered, glaring at a couple of the more vocal ravenclaw detractors. Padma Patil, perhaps because Parvati was her twin, and she trusted her sister's instincts, was one of the few ravenclaws on his side. At least, in _their_ year. With few classes together, and little interaction between houses outside of classes (as each house had its own table in the Great Hall), it was rather difficult to tell what anyone outside of both his year and house felt about any of this.

The quidditch team clearly trusted his innocence, which was something, but the next match of the year was not until the next semester. Wood was giving them a break, but he was civil if he ever encountered Harry in the hall, or common room.

No, the problem was mostly the _other_ houses. Specifically, Hufflepuff. They had Herbology with the hufflepuffs, and Harry usually considered himself on good terms with the members of that house. However, Justin Finch-Fletchey, whom he'd saved from the panicked snake, was now actively shunning him, and Justin's best friends (or most common companions), a girl with two blonde pigtails named Hannah Abbott, and a rather self-important boy named Ernie (short for Ernest, perhaps?) Macmillan watched Harry's every move with overt suspicion. It was rather trying, and made Herbology a rather tedious prospect—like a second Potions class, and that was bad enough, Snape being what he was. But hey, at least Harry had reclaimed his rightful place as Hogwarts's most mistrusted student.

And there was that older hufflepuff boy (a prefect? He was the seeker on the hufflepuff team) who gently corrected students he found badmouthing Harry. That was an unexpected kindness.

Harry decided that it was best to explain what had really happened at the dueling club the other day (a disaster so great that it had, indeed, been canceled). If only _he __himself_ understood snake-speech (_parseltongue_, he corrected himself) then it perhaps was reasonable that Finch-Fletchey had not made the connection between the snake's sudden passivity and Harry's order. Or, indeed, known that Harry had given it any orders. Harry was willing to be generous when judging their suspicion. You would think that they'd know him well enough to know that he wouldn't go around petrifying muggleborns (his best friend being a muggleborn), but…hey! Who knew?

One day when Herbology was canceled on account of rain (weren't they still in…you know, Rainyland, U.K.?), Harry decided to seek out Finch-Fletchey and company, to explain himself. It wasn't that he thought that it would fix everything, but at least if he made his best explanation, he could honestly say he'd tried.

He made the mistake of informing Ron of his plans before leaving the common room, which just meant that Ron insisted upon accompanying him, just in case they attacked (in "self-defence"), which, Harry had to concede, was a good point, and one he hadn't thought of. Mostly because it was such a stupid thing to do.

Hermione decided that she wanted to go to the library, and that "when the portrait door is already open" was as good a time as any to go. The three of them stepped out together, and Hermione struck out on her own shortly thereafter, weaving her way past students, making for the library in a thoughtless dance, too fixated upon her goal to even notice.

Harry and Ron also arrived at the library, about fifteen minutes later. This was after they'd wandered the usual indoor hangouts looking for that other trio, and hadn't found them.

To be fair, they knew of few established hideouts. They hung out at Hagrid's cabin often enough, but that was only they. Perhaps most people used the regular assortment of old, abandoned classrooms. There was hardly time to check _all_ of these, however. And they didn't even know where the dormitories of any of the houses but gryffindor were. (They'd best find that out before Hermione finished her potion; Harry sensed a week of hiding under the invisibility cloak in his near future.) He'd just have to hope….

And sure enough, they were secreted away in a corner of the library, leaning heads close together to make as little noise as possible. Perhaps they hadn't seen Hermione arrive, and perhaps she was far enough away not to hear their conversation. (Harry was well aware that his hearing was freakishly good, thank you.) It was the only thing that Harry could think of to explain how they were speaking of him, even in whispers, as they were. Unless Hermione _didn't_ care about him?

He remembered last year, the perils she'd braved miles beneath the school, and chastised himself for doubting her. When Hermione was reading, she noticed little else; everyone knew it.

Justin Finch-Fletchey was a notable absentee amongst the now-duo of Abbott and Macmillan.

"Justin's been worried that he'd be next ever since he told Potter that his name was down for Eton—you don't have to be a pureblood to figure out that that's not a wizarding school, and no one says Potter's dumb. We don't know what the monster is, and so we can't fight it."

"You're sure it's Potter, then?" asked Hannah Abbott, twisting one of her braids around her finger. "He always seems so nice when I pass him in the halls—and in class—"

Macmillan rolled his eyes. "Hannah, come _on_! Didn't you see what I saw, at the Dueling Club? Potter chased the snake after Justin, and it nearly bit his head off—literally! Scared Justin half to death, I tell you!

"Look, Hannah, everyone knows that parseltongue is an old curse that runs only in the darkest lineages—Slytherin's the last known speaker. And he must have seemed an okay guy before he went crazy and tried to off the school. I bet Potter's just biding his time…. I mean, the people who bother Potter are the ones getting petrified, right? Everyone hates Mrs. Norris, but Creevey really only bothered Potter—taking pictures of him in the mud after Lockhart botched that spell and all—so, I told Finch-Fletchey to lay low in the dorms, I mean, if Potter's targeting muggleborns—"

Harry glanced at Ron, who had apparently come within earshot, what with how tightly his fists were clenched, and the hard set to his face. Death glare time.

"_Ron_," he hissed. "Calm down."

He wasn't _quite_ to the "set things on fire" stage, but he was clearly very close. Harry pulled away from him, to approach the two of them alone.

"Hello," he said to them, in his friendliest voice. Behind him, he heard Ron facepalm, or something similar; he didn't turn to look. "I'm looking for Justin Finch-Fletchey."

In other circumstances, he might have laughed at their expressions, Hannah's eyes wide and horrified, Ernie briefly equally wide-eyed, before he decided to stand his ground, and his eyes narrowed.

"Where Justin is is none of your business, Potter. He's my friend, and I won't let you hurt him—"

"I don't want to _hurt_ him," Harry said, rolling his eyes. Sometimes, that urge was just overpowering. "I only want to explain what happened the other day—at the Dueling Club."

"We all saw what happened!" Ernie began, but Harry cut him off as though that were all he had meant to say.

"Then you saw that after I spoke to the snake, it backed off—"

"I saw you speaking parseltongue at it! You could have been saying anything."

Harry rolled his eyes again. He crossed his arms, and stared Macmillan down. "Your closed mind is not my fault. Will you pass my message, then, that I was only trying to save him from that snake?"

He decided not to point out that the snake was only going to attack because it was in pain, and felt cornered. Cornered animals bite.

"I don't believe you. Everyone knows you hate muggles. And by the way, I'm a halfblood. My family—," he said, thrusting his chin into the air in what he seemed to think was a gesture of defiance. It just made him look rather silly. Harry had to try hard not to laugh, despite the seriousness of the situation.

"I don't _care_ about your blood status!" Harry said, and then winced at his own word choice, combined with his vehemence. Then he shook his head, as Macmillan puffed up his chest, saying,

"That's not what I heard. I heard you hate those muggles you live with—"

"It's impossible to live with the Dursleys and _not_ hate them," Harry snapped. "I'd love to see _you_ try it." And there went any sense of humour, or self-restraint.

He glanced at Ron, to see Ron turn to him with a worried frown. Ron the mother hen. Perhaps justified, this once. He took a deep breath, and tried to send Ron a sincere smile.

"Look, Macmillan," he said, with a sigh. "I thought we got on well enough. Have I ever tried to hurt you?"

"You've been biding your time—"

"If you truly believed that, would you be saying it to my face? Even if I _did_ hate _muggles_, has it escaped your notice that _my best friend is a muggleborn_?"

He took a few deep, calming breaths, scanning the stacks for Hermione. "Look, Macmillan, if it were a matter of hatred, I can think of quite a few better candidates whom I'd much rather petrify than Creevey, Finch-Fletchey, or Mrs. Norris. I would think it obvious that Malfoy would be at the top of my list, followed by Lockhart, and then Snape. Because they've all made my life far more miserable than Creevey. And unlike Creevey, I doubt they'll grow out of it. And if I were smarter, and picked targets at random based on blood status, then your statements about Creevey and Mrs. Norris have no relevance."

"I'll believe it if something happens to Granger," Macmillan scoffed, and that was it for Harry. He had to leave before he did something he regretted.

He was mostly unaware of his tagalong as he began his march back to the Gryffindor Tower, vague thought in mind that he might do some studying, if he could find the concentration, or perhaps play chess with Ron. Ron, who was still following him.

The path back from the library cut right past Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, which did nothing to improve his spirits. He braced himself for the sight of the writing on the wall again (nothing seemed able to scrub it out, and Filch had tried, as if removing the stain would revive his cat).

But, his luck being what it was, it couldn't be that simple, now could it? He turned the corner, Ron hot on his heels, took a few steps forward, and then realised what he was seeing. A black, hazy sort of mist hung in the hallway, a negative image of the familiar face of his friend, Sir Nick, and, lying nearby….

"Well, well, well, what have we here?" asked Peeves the poltergeist, who, in a manner that would make Lockhart proud, seemed able to show up at the most inopportune of times. "What is Potty doing wandering the halls during—"

Peeves gasped, spotting what Harry already had—the petrified Justin, and the oddly frozen Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington.

"Run for your lives! Run for your lives!" Peeves cried, melodramatic as always. "Neither human nor ghost is safe!"

"Caught in the act, Potter!" Macmillan crowed, coming up behind Harry. You'd think his first priority would be the petrified Justin Finch-Fletchey, but, hey, who knew? Harry walked over to study Nick more closely, a sinking feeling in his stomach. Poor Sir Nick. He always tried to do right by students, too—even slytherins.

"Sir Nick?" he asked. There was no response. Through the oily blackness that made up Sir Nick's form, Harry could barely discern the mouth open as if about to speak, the eyes wide, the way he was leaning backwards. Everything suggested that the attack had come upon them unawares—and that perhaps they were surprised by the identity of the attacker. Or perhaps of the monster.

He felt a hand grip his upper arm, and he turned back to face Ron, who gave him a tight nod, even as his expression darkened, as he turned to glance over the scene—Macmillan still slandering Harry, Peeves screaming his head off, the two victims, and here came McGonagall and Hagrid.

Harry's heart sank. Anyone knew that Ron was his best friend, and he suspected that those were expected to defend their friends no matter what, regardless of innocence or guilt. In short, he had no alibi, and Ernie could prove that he had been here shortly after Justin was petrified. It did not look good.

"Mr. Macmillan," McGonagall snapped at Ernie Macmillan. "Don't stand there yammering about what you don't know. Make yourself useful, and escort Nick and Finch-Fletchey to the Hospital Wing. Potter, come with me."

"He didn't do it, Professor McGonagall. Harry wouldn't—" Hagrid began, even as Ron was saying,

"Harry is innocent! I can vouchsafe that he—"

"That is quite enough from the both of you. Hagrid, I believe you were headed for the library. Mr. Weasley, this is out of my hands. Dumbledore's orders. You may, however, accompany him to his office, but this is a private meeting. If you are so concerned."

And she stormed off, as she had several times before, leaving Harry to follow her. He glanced at Ron, bowing his head, and shrugged, hurrying after McGonagall. Ron, not inclined to leave him alone after recent events, followed.


	13. Reassurance

Ron was allowed to accompany him into Dumbledore's office, even, as the man himself was not present. Possibly he was checking up on Finch-Fletchey, Sir Nick, Creevey, and Mrs. Norris. Wherever he was, Harry thought, it was both rather rude, and rather pointlessly cruel, to call him up here, and then have him wait, on tenterhooks he would think, for his judgement.

_He can't __**possibly**__ think that I did this_, Harry reminded himself, remembering that not-so-long-ago night when Creevey had been brought into the Hospital Wing. _But he doesn't know that I know that he knows that I'm innocent…unless he can read minds._

_Could_ he read minds? Harry began to fret over this distinct possibility, as Ron stood nearby, his sentinel, as he'd put it last year, guarding the door, and himself fretting over Harry, in silence.

Harry had never, to his knowledge, been to Dumbledore's office before. It was a cosy little place, with a wall covered in snoring portraits of previous headmasters and headmistresses, a desk full of what looked to be quite fragile silvery artefacts, a fireplace along a wall, and there, in a cage near the door…a bird of fiery plumage, with drooping, lustreless feathers, and dull black, beady eyes. This must be Dumbledore's pet. Harry hadn't taken him for the sort to have an animal companion, which made this bird's presence of sufficient distraction for him—even before the bird burst into flame.

Ron's gaze snapped to it immediately (_Have you found a kindred spirit, Ron?_ Harry wondered) and he turned to Harry, with a rather wild look in his eyes. He must be thinking, _first Harry is found near where Justin was petrified, and now Dumbledore's pet bird has killed itself near Harry._

Or, perhaps, he was thinking: _Harry, why did you set Dumbledore's pet bird on fire_? But no, surely Ron knew better than that.

"It's alright, Ron," Harry said, leaning closer towards the bird. "I believe this is Dumbledore's pet phoenix—the bird of fire, reborn from its own ashes, it sets itself alight, to be born anew. They're called after the mythical Phoenician bird—"

Ron did not much care for the details of any specific thing…usually. "Then, Dumbledore does not mean to fault you for this, as well?"

"Don't worry, Ron," Harry said.

The door through which they'd recently come opened, and a familiar man, in robes of lilac (a subtle jab at Lockhart, perhaps? Nah) entered, pausing to glance and nod his approval to his pet bird.

"Professor, your bird—!" Ron cried.

"Yes, yes, I've been telling him to get on with it for a while, now. But Fawkes never likes burning days—he thinks it makes him look ugly, and he has quite a deal of pride in his appearance. I'm sorry you had to see him on a burning day, he usually looks quite majestic—"

"_Fawkes_?" repeated Harry, incredulous. He'd heard the story, in school, before coming to Hogwarts, and found it difficult to believe that Dumbledore had the _audacity_…of course, he _had_ been in Gryffindor. "…With an 'o'?"

"With an 'a'," said Dumbledore, and his eyes were twinkling.

Bonfire Night was almost a month ago. Somehow, it seemed fitting that he make the bird Fawkes's acquaintance in the same month.

"After Guy Fawkes?" he confirmed. Dumbledore just sat there twinkling merrily, and Harry despaired of getting any real answer from him.

"Would you care for a lemon drop?" asked Dumbledore, holding out a low, wide bowl filled with individually wrapped candies. The wrappers looked to be of cellophane, which was rather…incongruous, here at the heart of Hogwarts. Were these…perhaps…_muggle_ candies?

"'Lemon drop'?" Harry repeated, cocking his head.

"A kind of muggle sweet I am rather fond of," Dumbledore said, still twinkling. Aha! That cinched it. Harry slowly reached out and took a candy, tore open the wrapper, put it in his mouth, thinking of the lemon pop the Dursleys had been forced to buy him last year, when they'd gone to the zoo. He decided that Dumbledore had a point. These _were_ very good. It put him in a slightly better mood.

Dumbledore turned, holding the bowl out to a silent Ron, who took one himself, with great caution, as if it might bite. Right. He was going to be kicked out now, wasn't he? Harry shook his head, and his mind returned, at last, to more relevant, recent events.

How could he have forgotten, even briefly? And, as if sensing that the conversation was about to shift to more serious matters, Dumbledore turned to Ron.

"Ah, Mr. Weasley. I see you decided to accompany Harry here. Don't worry: he is safe in my hands."

Ron looked down at the floor of the office, which at least was carpeted. That was something, even if the pattern was old and faded, as if it had been laid down in the time of the Founders, and retouched seldom since. Still not the sort of thing to hold anyone's interest for very long.

"Are you requesting that I leave, Professor?" asked Ron, tensing again, wary, on watch. He turned to Harry, as if to ensure that _Harry_ hadn't spontaneously combusted. Turned back to Dumbledore.

"No, no, if Mr. Potter would prefer your company, you may stay. I merely wished to see how he has been…_getting on with_ recent events. Mr. Potter?"

"Are you going to accuse me of petrifying those people, sir?" he asked. "It seems an unlikely coincidence that you called me here just after the recent bout of petrifications. But…yes, please do let Ron stay."

He needed the moral support. Who knew where this conversation might head, into what murky waters? Harry was on edge as it was, a bit shorter-fused than usual, ready to overreact, sometimes even with violence, at the slightest provocation.

The school had turned its back on him—again. Half of his year mates seemed utterly convinced that he was the Heir of Slytherin. Only gryffindor stood by him. Slytherin knew he wasn't the Heir—or seemed to, but took too much sadistic pleasure in his suffering to even try to set the record straight. Not that they would have. Slytherin was the house of seizing opportunities. If Harry now seemed an ideal scapegoat, they would use that.

Of course, it was also possible that some among them, less vocal but still present, were also on his side, quietly working towards his aid, knowing that no good would come of letting the real monster go unchecked. Possible. He didn't have much speech with the slytherins, barring Malfoy and his goons.

All told, Harry, forewarned of the coming disaster, but without the details to _do_ something about it, was in a rather sorry state. It was a fact that he had to ponder: who else would be attacked? If Slytherin despised muggleborns, did he also hate halfbloods? Would anyone who stood up to the monster be petrified?

There was infuriatingly little knowledge of what the people who had been petrified had been doing just prior. It seemed clear that they had been surprised at the attack—taken unawares. Whatever did this was capable of doing so instantaneously, or nearly so.

And that was the end of his knowledge, except for a sneaking suspicion…. He had not heard the voice this time, had had no forewarning, yet, again, the victims had been found outside Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. Was that perhaps the origin of the attacks?

"I do not believe that you are behind these attacks, Harry," Dumbledore said, his voice gentle, as if handling a slippery piece of glass. Drop it, and it might break, to your detriment. But that was about where Harry thought he was, himself; it was difficult to begrudge Dumbledore his caution, even if it felt a bit patronising. "I called you here to see how you were doing. I understand that public opinion can be…fickle. Fame is a difficult burden to bear."

He sighed, glancing down, as if remembering some personal experience, before leaning back in his chair, hands clasped before him. He seemed such a grandfatherly figure…it was hard not to trust him. But Harry's trust was, for one reason and another, harder to earn than that of most children.

"Professor," he said. "Has any progress been made—on finding out how to cure those that have been attacked, or what the culprit is—_anything?"_

Dumbledore lowered his gaze, the twinkle gone from his eyes, expression solemn. Harry took the opportunity to turn to look at Ron, who seemed to feel that it was his place to stay out of this conversation unless directly addressed. Otherwise, Harry was sure, Ron would have answered Dumbledore's question for him.

"Ah, well, it is difficult to discover a cure without knowing precisely what caused their affliction, understand. An ingredient that such restorative draughts have in common is mandrake root, in various forms, and I am afraid the mandrakes you are tending in Professor Sprout's class are the only ones we currently have available. They were difficult enough to obtain. No, we must wait."

There was a moment of silence for those already petrified, and Dumbledore, looking up again, twinkle rekindled behind his glasses, said, "But I think I might ask you whether or not you have noticed anything unusual concerning these incidents. Did anything strange happen just before you found Nick and Finch-Fletchey?"

One thing he had noted to himself already several times was the complete lack of forewarning, and thus there was no hesitation before he shook his head, no need to question whether or not he should mention that voice he had heard, only for the echo of Ron's voice to remind him that _even in the Wizarding World, hearing voices that no one else does is considered…unusual_.

Despite its absence, he couldn't shake the feeling that the two were somehow connected. Perhaps the voice, whatever it was, had been too far distant for Harry to notice, angry as he'd been. Perhaps it had decided to keep its inner narrative to itself. Either way, he had the sense that its was the voice of whatever had petrified the students, Sir Nick, and Mrs. Norris, that he was hearing somewhere within the walls. How, he did not know. Why, was likewise a mystery. But he remembered that it had wanted to kill, and believed that it was fully capable of doing so. Perhaps he should tell Dumbledore. But….

Suppose the voice _were_ only in his own mind? He would hate to lose what little respect Dumbledore had for him. He would deal with this problem as he did all others. Alone.

Or was that more rightly: with the assistance of Ron and Hermione? He thought of Hermione's Polyjuice Potion, currently brewing in that self-same bathroom. He thought of Draco Malfoy's jeers that _you'll be next, mudbloods_. He remembered that he'd become again the pariah of the school. He thought of Dobby's two warnings, how he had closed the entrance to Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters, sent the bludger after him, stalked him to the Hospital Wing. His head snapped up.

He could feel Ron tense where he stood guard nearby. By now, he must associate that particular response with nothing good. Poor Ron.

"There was a house-elf who came to warn me that these attacks would happen, before I ever started at Hogwarts. At first, I dismissed it as a mere practical joke by…someone. But then he went on to close the barrier wall leading to Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters, sir, and sent that bludger after me. And then made a special trip to tell me all this, that he preferred me 'grievously injured' to dead. He knew that all this was going to happen. He said something about his masters…that they'd planned it, somehow. How, I don't know. Is there some way to find out to which family 'Dobby' belongs?"

Dumbledore sighed, expression downcast again. Ron turned to look at him, as if disbelieving that that was Harry's big plan. Well, Harry wasn't going to tell him about hearing the voices, or Hermione's attempts to subvert wizarding law, now was he?

"Alas, Harry, even if we _could_ find the house-elf, I'm afraid that his testimony would count for little in wizarding law, and it is well-known that house-elves are forbidden, bound by magic, not to reveal their masters' secrets. That Dobby was able to impart even such knowledge as he did is incredible."

Harry huffed. "That's it? There's no way to learn anything more from him?"

"No, and it is likely best for him, safest for him, if we do not reveal that he has done anything his masters might find… objectionable. While his methods leave something to be desired, it appears that his aim was to protect you. The least we can do in return is to keep silence, and not to reveal that he has gone against his masters' orders. Nevertheless, thank you for telling me of these matters. Is there anything else you wish to share?"

Harry glanced again at Ron, if only for a second, reconsidering the merits of sharing what he knew of the mysterious voice in the walls in light of this new dead end. But he trusted Ron's judgement.

"No, sir. Nothing at all."

* * *

"…and that is why I missed our meeting, last month," Harry said, having just finished recounting the long tale of what, precisely, had occurred on Hallowe'en.

Lily Evans stared at the fire burning merrily in the fireplace. It appeared to be the location in which to deliver bad news, and to tell long tales (that were nevertheless true). Harry was only leaning forwards slightly, watching the flames, wondering if they could burn him, wondering if those injuries would somehow carry over into the real world. Somehow, he doubted that either were true.

"I apologise. I _had_ been looking forward to that meeting all day. Alas, it was not to be. Do you agree with what Ron and Hermione said? Was what I did wrong, do you suppose?"

"Your intentions were true, and you did her no lasting harm. You knew what you were doing. As long as you yourself question whether or not your actions are justified, I would not worry overmuch about the weight of a single mistake. You have had little enough of guidance."

Harry looked away from both the fireplace and Lily. "But more has happened since. I have but little time in which to explain this to you, to ask you for your advice, which I have been needing these past two months. I need to discover what manner of beast can both petrify and kill, Mother. And I need to discover how it may be controlled, that I might discover who is controlling it. Perhaps, if I but found the creature…."

He realised that he was thinking aloud, paused, and, with what might almost be considered a smirk, said, "Hermione believes that it is Malfoy, but then, she thought Professor Snape was trying to kill me last year. She is attempting to brew a difficult potion called the Polyjuice Potion. Only yesterday she took Ron and me aside to give us instructions on how we were to obtain the samples of 'whomever we wished to turn into'. Something about chocolate cakes laced with sleeping draught.

"And when I asked her what _she_ would do for _her_ sample, she held up a hair, saying that she'd taken it from the robe of the slytherin girl whom Professor Snape would have had her duel, had she not followed me. I pointed out to her that she couldn't be sure that the hair was from that same slytherin 'what if she had a boyfriend?', I asked.

"Regardless, Malfoy has three constant admirers: his bodyguards, Crabbe and Goyle, and his girlfriend, Pansy Parkinson. For anyone else not in authority to be asking such questions in such a House as Slytherin…it might be suspicious. Hermione did not appreciate my pointing out flaws in her plan. I would think she would be grateful."

Lily was shaking her head. "Is Polyjuice Potion no longer considered illegal to brew or to use?" she asked, voice mild. His smirk spread into a grin.

"She _is_ thirteen," he said. "I doubt they will punish her too harshly, should she succeed. She thinks that Malfoy is to blame, but I know that whoever is petrifying students is not a student himself. Dumbledore indicated in the Hospital Wing that he knew that the Chamber of Secrets had been opened before…. Ah, yes, I have yet to tell you of that. I shall just say that, if she succeeds in making this potion, I shall be most impressed. And I doubt that she will suffer any consequences for it."

"And to that end, you will help her as you can. They say that you are the more disobedient of my sons," Lily said, shaking her head, blowing a strand of bright red hair out of her face.

Harry shrugged, in response. Had they met in the waking world, he would have voiced complaints that she spoke as if she had more than just one child—just Harry. But here, in the boundary between dreams and wakefulness, he knew he behaved differently, and, for whatever reason, it did not bother him. He spoke differently, thought differently, behaved differently, and rarely dwelt much upon the subject. He accepted it as part of that ineffable, inexplicable nature of dreams.

"Where is Thor, Mother?" he asked, on that note. He made a point of asking her from time to time, unpredictably, out of the blue, as the saying went (which was an apt idiom when speaking of the God of Thunder, anyway).

But, as she had every time before, she just smiled, and said, "Perhaps he is nearer than you think."

And, with a nod, he moved on.

* * *

Hermione's Polyjuice Potion plan went off without a hitch. It also accomplished nothing. All they learnt was that Malfoy was most definitely not the Heir of Slytherin. Harry was kind enough not to ruin her sulk by saying something to the effect of "I told you so". She had, after all, created a perfect Polyjuice Potion (let him never doubt her skill again), not to mention either baked (did Hogwarts have a kitchen?) or otherwise acquired two chocolate cakes, laced them with sleeping draught which must also be of her own brewing, and come up with a plan to drug Crabbe and Goyle, meanwhile somehow acquiring the hair of the Slytherin girls prefect. How, he suspected, would always remain a mystery. Ron was impressed, even, and he rarely understood just how delicate such proceedings were.

What did they learn from the three hours they spent in the Slytherin common room? That no one there seemed to have a clue who the Heir of Slytherin was, although some were ready to scoff at the mere suggestion that it could be Harry Potter. "He's a gryffindor," said one. "Too close to that muggle-loving fool," said another. Harry had gathered that this was what some of them called Dumbledore. He also learnt that some of the slytherins were, indeed, quite as troubled by recent events as Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

"I hope they catch whoever is doing it soon," Zabini said. "People think little enough of us already, without all this pureblood bullocks. My parents weren't even Death Eaters—but that doesn't stop rumours, does it?"

"You hear the school whispering, '"the Heir of Slytherin", "Slytherin's monster", "Slytherin's secret chamber"—why don't they just kick out all the slytherins?'" moaned a blonde girl huddled into a ball in an armchair. "Someone even told Blaise that it must be him, all because of his crazy Mum. How fair is that? And hufflepuffs pride themselves on their so-called 'justice'."

Harry, if he had heard her say those words, would have had to hand it to her, silently. Instead, he caught snippets of the conversation from afar, as the three of them moved farther afield. Only Hermione truly had the liberty to go where she wished—none would dare to question a prefect. She filled them in on what little she heard and learnt, later. It was a good thing she had such a good memory. Indeed, her ability to remember their words verbatim was somewhat suspect.

As a bonus to hanging out with Malfoy (as their rewards) Ron learnt of a secret chamber in the Malfoy's house, beneath the drawing room, where he'd hidden a cache of dark artefacts. Harry was sure that Ron could make good use of that information. The question was: would he? Or was he too honourable?

A true Gryffindor, was Ron. If he hadn't sent word in three days, Harry would for him. Sometimes, these things needed to be done.

* * *

She stood outside the door, as if waiting for permission to come in. As if permission needed to be granted. She thought of another time, when it had been needed, and hadn't been granted, and clutched the book tighter in her hand.

All she had to do, she told herself, was throw it in there. No one ever came here, anyway—no one would ever find it here. And if they did, they'd do the sensible, moral thing, and turn it in to the Lost and Found. They wouldn't keep it. They wouldn't write in it. Not because they were smarter than she, but because they had better manners. They weren't as lonely. Weren't as greedy. Weren't as _bad_. Weren't as _weak_.

Her hands were shaking, aching to throw the curst item as far as she could, but—

Suppose it wasn't enough? Suppose someone else found it, and _was_ foolish enough, had so little respect for private property that they claimed "finders, keepers", and used it themselves?

It wouldn't happen. She'd see to it. All of the spells that might be used to destroy the diary were higher-level spells—not high level, only above her year, but she'd looked some up, anyway, here and there. It was beyond her current ability. All she could do was hope that water would flood the pages with infinite words, and he'd spend the rest of forever reading. Because that was what she was going to do. She was going to flush it down the toilet. No one would fish a diary out of a toilet. Not even Myrtle.

The school would be safe. The diary would be forgotten. It would no longer be able to hurt anyone. _She_ would be safe.

That was what she told herself, then.


	14. Memories of Murder

Without Polyjuice Potion to distract her, Hermione returned to poring over old tomes in the library, hysterical in her attempts to divine what monster might be petrifying the students of Hogwarts, although Hogwarts had so many bestiaries that it was mostly a matter of sheer luck. Harry and Ron left her to it, Harry attempting to come up with an alternate plan.

Meanwhile came Christmas, and Malfoy got in his regular jabs at the Weasley family when Ron offered to help Hagrid with carrying the Christmas trees. A fight might have broken out then and there, but Snape was passing through, and there was nothing of justice about him. Hagrid's defence that "Malfoy was insulting his family" didn't even phase Snape. Did Snape even _have_ family? He remembered Mum mentioning something about a cruel man named Tobias, and a distant mother named Eileen. Perhaps that was why Snape was so unpleasant. He came of unpleasant origins.

Still, Christmas was a tranquil, if more subdued, affair. Ron had, with seemingly great reluctance, gone with the rest of the Weasleys to visit his brother Charlie in Romania. He seemed unsure of what to make of Harry's gift. Harry shrugged, and smiled. He'd never read _King Lear_, only _Hamlet_ and _Romeo and Juliet_, and those in class. Which meant that, when Ron finally got around to reading that, he'd be one ahead of Harry. Oh, well.

And now he knew, too, that Ron's birthday was in March. Dudley had always received an absurd amount of presents for his birthday. Harry would have to see about getting Ron something.

And Hermione, belatedly, if he ever saw her again outside of meals, class, and the library.

At least Ginny looked much better than she had before she left. Romania must have agreed with her: she returned laughing, cheeks flushed, and even had enough cheer to hazard a vague smile in his direction before hurrying away, as if stunned at her own daring.

Getting books on any muggle subject Hermione might miss of ordinary muggle subjects was an obvious choice, and Dean was always open to books about art. Neville might or might not appreciate a reference of folk remedies (but think of his Christmas gift of natural solutions for nightmares last year, and consider this turnabout). All in all, despite his still conflicted opinions about the holiday, Harry thought it had all turned out well.

He wasn't sure why he needed another Weasley sweater, but appreciated the thought, nonetheless. At least there weren't any mystery gifts this year.

He showed Hermione the diary only after Christmas, when the excitement had died down, and he'd tried some of the more obvious tricks on it, with no success. Hermione needed something to distract her—something with which she could make progress.

First, she pulled out a strange magical eraser, scrubbing away at the blank pages, and frowning when no words appeared. Only then did she turn to Harry and demand to know where it came from. He told her.

He explained that he'd been passing Myrtle's bathroom (it was flooded again) when he'd heard crying from within, and, unsure of who it was, had knocked on the door (just in case). After finding out that it was Harry (and Ron, who seemed determined not to let Harry out of his sight; Hermione had been in the library, of course) the voice had agreed that they had come in.

And it had turned out to be Myrtle, this time with a legitimate complaint. She'd been sitting in the plumbing, minding her own business, when someone had tried to flush a book down her toilet of choice. It had passed right through her (a highly unpleasant experience, she claimed), and the toilet had overflowed….

Myrtle had shot out of the plumbing quick as she could, but by then the intruder had gone. The book in question was lying innocently in the miniature lake born of that overflow. Harry had picked it up (ignoring Ron's warning about cursed books that had you speaking in limericks, or that you couldn't put down, and Mr. Weasley's passed-down wisdom about not trusting a thing _if you can't see where it keeps its brain_) and put it in his schoolbag, more to get it out of Myrtle's sight than for any other reason, and said all sorts of reassuring things about how whoever it was probably hadn't meant to hurt Myrtle—didn't she say that she was out of sight at the time; it was an innocent mistake!

He'd spent quite a few minutes calming down Myrtle, and listened with as much patience as he could muster to Myrtle describing how she'd died in here because Olive Hornby, whoever that was, had made fun of her glasses, and then she'd followed the poor girl even to her wedding and haunted her, until she'd been bound to Hogwarts by the Ministry officials, and could no longer leave the grounds.

He hadn't succeeded as well as Ron in the patience department, but he'd made an honest effort; Myrtle could be obnoxious and difficult, but it was clear that, for once, she was genuinely upset, and with cause, and he couldn't help thinking of the callous disregard of Hogwarts's students in general at that moment. So, yes, he'd listened to her, and had tried to limit his insensitive remarks, and Myrtle had eventually cheered up, and then they'd had to hurry to their next class. Hermione remembered that day when he said that, because they'd been late, and she'd chewed them out, after.

But there was something about this diary. After all, it was, to all appearances, a completely ordinary notebook, bought at a muggle bookshop on Vauxhall, and owned by a mysterious T. M. Riddle. But he or she had never written in it, as far as could be told by the naked eye, and yet someone had gone to great lengths to either destroy or hide the diary. Why?

And, as it was, judging by the date on the cover, over fifty years old… where had it been, in the interim? Something about it rang false to Harry, an unscratched itch, that he knew he must humour. So, here he was, with Christmas over, working on the newest mystery.

Hermione looked thoughtful. "You put it in your schoolbag," she said, tapping her chin. "Didn't it ruin your schoolbooks?"

"That was the strangest thing about the book, perhaps," he said. "Although I picked it up from a pool of water, it was completely dry…."

Hermione _hmm_ed to herself, and he wondered if she'd realised anything. But if she had, she didn't share it with him, leaving him to continue to puzzle over the thing. He was sure that it held some sort of clue.

Think. What were diaries, if you broke the concept down? They were records of a day's events—no, records of a person's _memories_ of a day's events. They poured their hearts and souls into the pages, opened their hearts and minds to speak freely the thoughts and feelings they would never voice aloud….

Hmm. No good. Alright. What did you do with a diary? You read it. That was out of the question. You wrote in it.

Could it be that simple?

What if it _were_ curst, and that was why it had been abandoned? Perhaps he shouldn't….

On the other hand, suppose this book held the answers? He'd never get them from Dobby, the only one he knew had them. This book might be his best clue.

But there was something else. No attacks had occurred between the time he'd found the diary, and now. Perhaps it was only because of the holidays—too few students; perhaps the Heir of Slytherin, whoever he was, had also gone on vacation (an alarming thought, somehow). Or, perhaps…nah. It was only a book.

Right?

He didn't know whether he was trying to talk himself out of writing in the book, or into it. He opened his seventh sense to try to understand it better, but it was such a small thing amidst the greater landscape of Hogwarts—mysteries at the edge of his attention kept distracting him, and it was hard to find the book's signature, to look _just_ at it, to delineate where it began and ended. Strangely difficult. As if the book were hiding itself.

He frowned.

Hermione in the library again, the boys dorms deserted, Harry had been up here for the better part of an hour, debating the best course of action.

_To be, or not to be_ _—that is the question:/Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer/The slings and arrows of outrageous Fortune…._

Oh, alright. But he'd better not regret this.

With a sigh, he pulled out his quill and inkwell, setting them aside on the sheets. They probably used something like this on Asgard. It was probably why it had taken him so little effort adjusting to using a quill instead of a pen. Another thought for another time. Why was he stalling? Was he…_afraid_?

_"Never trust something if you don't know where it keeps its brain", Dad always says. You know that he works in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office. If anyone, he would know…._

But was there anyone in this castle more equipped to handle such an artefact than he, possessed as he was of Loki's knowledge, and Loki's memories and experience, the familiarity with the very worst of dangers an artefact could pose…to wrest control from its victim, twist them into—

Ah, that did it. Now it was preferable to try the thing to continuing what he was doing. It was occasionally possible to trick yourself into doing something you didn't want to.

He dipped his quill in the ink, and began to write. What to write was obvious. He'd never kept a diary, but he still knew the heading, what to write on the very first page. _Dear diary,_ he wrote, and waited, about to move on two lines to write something inane, and quite possibly made up, but then he noticed that something was happening. The ink was fading away, greying out, breaking up in a noise-filled pattern of speckles and dots, until in a moment, he couldn't tell he'd written anything at all.

A pause. Harry debated what to do, whether to skip two lines and write some more, or to wait.

He was patient. He decided to wait, resting his quill in the inkwell. He didn't think he'd have to wait long.

Sure enough, soon, a reply emerged, seeming to fade in, to seep in, up through the pages like a stain.

_Hello. Who are you, may I ask, and how did you come by my diary?_

Harry stared at the words, the words that didn't disappear, as they awaited a response. Somehow, he hadn't quite expected for the diary to be able to reply to him. Now, he had to think fast. Tell the truth, or lie? Well, that was obvious. He sat there, thinking hard, for a few seconds. Give a lie, with a grain of truth. Make up a story. Make up an identity. Stick to it.

_My name is James Ericson,_ he wrote, staring for a short time at his writing, which was probably a bit _too_ neat for a second year student. _I'm in Ravenclaw. Fourth year. I found this book in a puddle of water after one of the toilets overflowed. It looked interesting, __especially__ since it wasn't wet. I wanted to figure out why not, __so__ I took it. I figured no one wanted it._

A pause, as the diary assessed his answer. Into that pause, Harry wrote, _Who are you, by the way? You haven't introduced yourself. Are you 'T. M. Riddle'?_

Ravenclaws usually wanted to know everything, didn't they? Harry shrugged. In actuality, people were different. Hermione was in gryffindor, despite decidedly ravenclawish tendencies. He hoped that was enough to cover any ignorance or inconsistencies on his part.

_My name is Tom. It's nice to meet you, James. I'm sorry to hear that the last owner tried to get rid of _ _this_ _ diary. While well-intentioned, sometimes, I understand, I can be a bit overbearing. _ _Hopefully_ _, you and I will get on better. How may I be of service?_

Harry paused, thinking it over. "Tom", if that was his name, seemed ready enough to accept that the new "owner" was a fourth-year ravenclaw. Harry had had to choose a different house and year, to cover his tracks.

Suppose whoever had thrown away the diary changed their mind, and saw Harry with it. Suppose the diary _were_ the source of the problems this school was facing (how?). Harry resolved to discover this if he could, thinking of a response to Tom's question; he began to write beneath Tom's previous response.

_Perhaps you might answer a few questions_, Harry wrote. _According to the cover, this diary was manufactured over half a century ago. Perhaps in your time more was known concerning the Chamber of Secrets. __Recently__, a few students have been petrified, and no one seems to know who is causing it, or how. What do you know?_

He looked back to Tom's first response as he waited for the ink to sink in, to find that it was fading, same as what he was writing. No need (little need) to turn pages, here.

_The Chamber of Secrets was opened when I went to school here, too!_ Tom wrote, his pristinely neat handwriting slightly more jagged in his haste. (Eagerness?) _Perhaps that is why someone chose to get rid of my diary. I still recall those events, fifty years ago, clear as day. Perhaps they hoped to silence me. But you and I outwitted them, didn't we?_

_When it was opened, a girl was killed, and Hogwarts _ _nearly_ _ closed as a result. I caught the killer, and he was expelled…but never sent to prison. They gave me a reward for apprehending him, and urged me to silence._

_Now, it seems, he chooses to misuse his freedom to make a second attempt at his evil work. I feel I _ _ **must** _ _ speak._

_Thankfully_ _, I preserved my memories in a more lasting way than ink. Perhaps you would be interested in viewing the night when I caught the one who opened the Chamber of Secrets. With your permission, I could show you the night as I remember it. What do you say, James?_

Harry's interest was piqued, despite himself. He didn't know whether or not to trust Tom, and yet…if Tom were the culprit, would he admit to having any knowledge of the Chamber? Or was this all some sort of lure, a ploy? Harry discovered the painful fact that, while he was good at reading people's faces and voices, he, for whatever reason, could not discern the truth or falsity of their written words. Or was it only _Tom's_ written words?

Suspicion roused, Harry was nonetheless polite, revealing none of his suspicion in his reply (he hoped).

_How does that work? Are there any dangers I should know about before I decide, one way or the other?_

He wondered if he were perhaps being too cautious. But Tom seemed to think this a reasonable precaution, for his reply gave no hint of offence taken.

_It's _ _completely_ _ safe—_ _like_ _ a pensieve, if you've ever used one of those. You would _ _simply_ _ exist as a silent witness to the events taking place, as you were not present at the time. You would see and hear everything that happened around you, but be unable to intervene—it is, after all, only a memory. And when the memory played through to the end, you would return to wherever you are now, with none the wiser._

_I've never used a pensieve…_ Harry wrote, wishing he could ask someone how common they were without raising suspicion. But, surely, if they were _that_ common, he'd have heard of them by now. _I suppose, for the sake of knowing what's going on, and helping those __currently__ suffering, I shall have to take you up on your offer._

And hope this wasn't a colossal mistake, He should have told Ron….

Next thing he knew, he felt as if _he_ were being sucked into the pages of the book. _A mistake, indeed_, he thought. But he had his own means of cutting whatever spells bound him to this book, if any indeed did. If this were a trick, Tom would find that he'd underestimated—

Hogwarts faded in around him, but not Hogwarts as he knew it. He knew the room that he stood in, although he had only been here once before, and it had looked very different, then.

This was the headmaster's office. And yet, the old man sitting behind the desk, reading what looked to be official documents, was not Albus Dumbledore. The dark navy of his robes, if nothing else, would make that plain, or the lack of glasses, his weary worn-out appearance. Something had taken its toll on the man, Harry thought. Perhaps this was relevant to the Chamber of Secrets, after all.

This must be the headmaster in Tom's time, a man he didn't recognise. But where was the student Tom had turned in for the crime? Where was Tom himself, for that matter?

A moment later, his second question was answered by a knock at the door. The old man behind the desk heaved a great sigh, saying, "Enter".

The door swung open immediately, with reluctance, and a boy in his late teens entered. He had neat black hair in an old-fashioned haircut, eyes a darker blue than Dumbledore's, and slightly shabby robes, as if he couldn't afford better, and had got his from the discount bin.

"Ah, Tom. I wanted to speak to you concerning your request to stay here at Hogwarts over the summer. I'm afraid that I have to decline—"

"But, Professor Dippet, sir," he cut in, as if he couldn't help himself. "Hogwarts is my home! You don't know how they treat me at the orphanage—they think I'm a freak! And the war going on—"

"I'm sorry, Tom," the man now known as Professor Dippet said. He did not seem to be paying attention to Tom, who seemed to notice this, with a small frown, glancing down at the papers.

"But, sir—"

"If these attacks continue much longer, Hogwarts will have to close anyway. I think it best that you remain in London, where you are safe—"

Harry saw Tom's fists clench, and recognised the signs. Just how _safe_ was Tom, exactly? What war had Dippet just mentioned? The only wars he could think of relevant to the time frame were the Wizarding War against Grindelwald, and World War II.

_You know, the last time I was in Germany—_ a voice began. Harry shoved it aside. He needed to hear what was going on. He supposed he should have known better than to dwell on muggles and wizards and wars over fifty years old.

"You had best get back to your dorms, Tom," said Dippet, voice feeble and strained, perhaps under the weight of recent events. "These are dangerous times we live in, indeed. Good night."

"Good night, sir," Tom said, with commendable calm.

He went out the door without another word, down the stairs, walking with purpose down the halls, until he was arrested by a man with lurid purple robes and auburn hair.

Harry stared. Despite the different-coloured, shorter beard and hair, the fewer wrinkles in an almost youthful face, and a certain tightness in his features, that Harry had never before seen, Harry knew this man at once. How could he not? The crooked nose, the half-moon spectacles, the gaudy robes…it must be Headmaster Dumbledore. Only, he was not the headmaster yet, was he?

Harry gave a moment's consideration to what this younger Dumbledore's function at Hogwarts was, before devoting all his attention to the conversation between the teacher, and the student.

"Going somewhere, Tom?" asked Dumbledore.

"Professor Dippet wanted to see me, sir. He had bad news for me, and I thought I'd walk it off, some. I do have prefect duties to attend to, as well, regardless of current climate."

Dumbledore's expression fell at the reminder of whatever calamity had recently befallen them.

"Ah, yes, I heard. That poor girl…. Be careful, Tom. We live in dangerous times," he said. "I fear this may be the end of Hogwarts…."

"What if they caught the killer?" Tom asked, voice suddenly far too eager and earnest. Dumbledore's gaze sharpened as it returned to him.

"Do you know something about recent events, Tom? Any knowledge at all as to what we're up against would be invaluable to Headmaster Dippet and me, along with the rest of the staff—"

Tom glanced down at his shoes, and then up again, through his enviably tidy bangs. "No, sir," he said.

_Lie_! said whatever sense or sentiment it was that let Harry tell the difference between the two. Usually, it was a quiet sort of melody in the back of his mind—the flow of conversation settled atop it as water over sediment, unless someone lied, and the sediment were kicked up….

But this was more overt. Either Tom was a bad liar, or he just wasn't in the right frame of mind to make himself sound convincing…or was it something about Dumbledore's presence?

Too many variables. Focus on the problem at hand, please!

Dumbledore, regardless, didn't seem to believe Tom, either. But at last he sighed, as if in defeat, and let Tom pass.

"Don't stay out too late, Tom," he stated. "Headmaster Dippet is right to be cautious. These are dangerous times."

Harry wondered if Dumbledore knew about the orphanage Tom had mentioned, if he knew how Tom was treated, the threats he faced.

Had Tom's childhood perhaps been as his? Was that the reason for his reluctance to return? Didn't it have to be? He still could hear what Tom had said…he too had been mistreated, called a freak, first felt that he belonged at Hogwarts…. He tried to think of his own response, what it would be if Hogwarts were to shut down. He'd be all alone, trapped at the Dursleys. His stomach clenched at the very thought, and he almost missed Dumbledore and Tom saying their goodnights, and going their separate ways.

Tom continued at a brisk pace, turning unfamiliar corners, heading down abandoned, or at least empty, unfamiliar corridors, and tight stairways built into the wall—these weren't moving staircases, but permanent fixtures.

At the bottom of a flight of steps, a corridor began around the corner. Tom lay in wait at the bottom of the steps, around the corner, with a pale wand clutched in his right hand, his attention fixed on the wall, where the light of torches would alert him of anyone coming.

They waited together, Harry almost bored, as he had nothing to do, and no way of knowing how long this would take. Still, he knew he was patient. He kept his focus on the task at hand, and waited with Tom Riddle, despite not knowing what either of them were waiting for.

And then he heard a voice. A painfully familiar voice, if younger and less gravely than he was used to.

It couldn't be.

The words were currently being muffled by both the wall that stood between them, and by (as he saw as the boy rounded the corner) the fact that he was speaking into a box that he was carrying in his arms.

Said boy was about Harry's age, but bulkier and more muscular than Crabbe and Goyle, with familiar, wild black hair, and black eyes currently darting around the room furtively.

Harry groaned. He knew that Hagrid couldn't possibly be the Heir of Slytherin. He didn't know which was worse: that Hagrid had been expelled for something he hadn't done; that Tom Riddle's diary was another dead end; that Hagrid _had_ brought a dangerous monster into the school; or that he would have to watch this spectacle unfold nonetheless…and probably he would have to ask Hagrid about it, too, at the first opportunity. Perhaps he knew something, even without knowing that he knew, had seen something he didn't understand, and hadn't known was important.

Harry continued to watch, as Tom stepped out from around the corner, cutting off Hagrid's escape.

"This has gone on long enough, Rubeus. I'm sorry, but I have to turn you in."

"I—what?" asked Hagrid, sounding stunned. Then he understood, and even by the feeble torchlight, he looked pale. "No, see Tom, you don't understand! It wasn't Aragog! He wouldn't! He _couldn't_, see—"

"Come _on_, Rubeus. Give it up, already! I'm sure that you never meant to harm anyone, but the girl's parents will be here tomorrow…they deserve the closure. If we can at least catch the thing that killed—"

"Go on, Aragog!" Hagrid cried, opening the box. Tom raised his wand to fend off the sudden attack, but he wasn't fast enough—something huge, black, and hairy, and with too many legs, bowled him over, and scuttled off down the corridors. An acromantula. Is that where they'd come from?

"He didn't do it, Tom. This is all just a misunderstanding."

Tom pulled himself back to his feet, pushing himself up off the floor, and looking around for any other hidden threats. He gave a regretful sigh, and turned to speak to Hagrid.

And then, in the blink of an eye, Harry was back. His return was so abrupt that it disoriented him, made him dizzy. He slowly realised that he was looking up at the beams supporting the canopy of his bed. He was sprawled in an uncomfortable angle, with his legs still over the side of his bed, and his back flat against the blankets. Where was the diary?

He found it sitting innocently to the side, and picked it up, and then reached for the inkwell he had used before. He should have taken the quill out, and capped the bottle. He shrugged. He hadn't, after all, spilt ink all over.

_Was it any help?_ asked Tom, the message rising up from the still open pages. Harry's eyes narrowed in suspicion again, and he considered what to think, whether to ask if he'd ever regretted turning Hagrid in, whether he'd honestly believed….

_Let me think about it for a few weeks,_ he said, as if he were considering the theory that Hagrid were the Heir. _I'll let you know then_.

Of course, that was before they arrested Hagrid, and sent him to Azkaban.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is pretty much the only thing I like about this chapter. Yuck. Still, it was necessary.  
Also: why cant people agree on the punctuation on one of Shakespeare's best-known soliloquies? Grr.


	15. Whatever It Takes

Harry convinced Ron and Hermione to go and speak to Hagrid the very next day. Of course, in order to do this, he had to explain about Tom Riddle's diary, and endure Ron's reproaches and Hermione's petulance at not figuring out something so obvious on her own. But they agreed to go, and all three of them snuck out of the grounds to visit Hagrid (an easier thing to do when class wasn't in session than when it _was_).

Hagrid was almost as cheerful as usual, and the decrease in his usual good spirits could be explained easily by the continued presence of Gilderoy Lockhart, and of course the resurgence of the Heir of Slytherin, after fifty years. Harry had devoted quite a bit of time to figuring out how to broach the subject to Hagrid. He didn't _quite_ want to mention Tom Riddle, for any number of reasons, including respect for Hagrid's ordeal. Was it all just a misunderstanding, or was Hagrid a victim, albeit less directly, of the Heir of Slytherin, and his monster?

He'd snuck out the night before, gone to the trophy room (where else would you look?), and confirmed the reality of one Tom M. Riddle on the shiny brass trophy. "Special Services to the School", eh? Suspicious in its vagueness, the lack of specificity lent credence to Tom's complaints that the school had essentially tried to buy his silence, which in turn lent credence to his story.

However, given what Harry had himself witnessed—and he wasn't sure whether or not memories could be falsified; he took this with some scepticism—the monster that had gotten Hagrid expelled was an acromantula, which, while terrifying for their own reasons, were _not_ possessed of the ability to petrify people. Last year's encounter with them in the Forbidden Forest during detention had given him sufficient cause to research them. Their only weapons were their mandibles, their venom, and their sheer size.

But the only advice Hagrid would give them, after Harry had carefully woven a path around the topic, was to "follow the spiders". And that came with the promise that they'd only try this if things seemed desperate, and that they came to him first, so that he could guide and protect them. Even Ron did not protest being protected from acromantulai. Because that was the most reasonable place for spiders to be congregating, of course. Normal-sized ones would naturally seek for the protection of their giant brethren.

Harry left Hagrid's in bad spirits. He'd put rather a lot of work into formulating his plan of conversation, and this was all it had yielded. He sighed. He might as well have mentioned Tom Riddle, or made accusations that Hagrid was the Heir of Slytherin. Instead, he'd carefully led into the topic. He'd started by reminding Hagrid about the recent attacks—if he knew any creature capable of petrifying people. He knew far too many.

Then he mentioned the spiders they'd seen fleeing through the window next to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, and asked whether or not there was one that all the spiders feared. He'd quietened then, saying that the spiders had become agitated when the Chamber of Secrets had been opened before—but he didn't know why. That was admitting to rather more than Harry had expected, but it was possible that, in his state of distress, Hagrid had been less cautious than he'd intended. Of course, Hagrid said plenty of things that he didn't mean to….

He'd carefully skirted around the question of why Hagrid had been expelled, but he'd been tempted to mention Tom Riddle, and his award for Special Services to the School. Still, they'd spent some time ruminating on what Slytherin's monster might be, and who the Heir. If it weren't a Slytherin student, then who? Could it be Lockhart? Snape? An unknown squatter on the premises?

But although Harry learnt some things (such as that _Moaning Myrtle_ was the girl killed by the monster), they'd made little progress.

Perhaps they should ask Myrtle? Harry thought of her usual demeanour, and reconsidered the merit of such. As long as the school was quiet….

But Harry couldn't let the matter go…not when Slytherin's monster was still out there, although it was suspiciously dormant now. He joined Hermione in researching the subject in the library, until school resumed, and quidditch practice with it, and he became rather distracted. As the semester progressed, and there were no more attacks, the Hufflepuffs thawed towards him, returning to their usual civil selves, those who had suspected him, despite Justin Finch-Fletchey still laid out in the Hospital Wing. And all was calm.

And then came Valentine's Day. To say that the day would be forever etched into people's memories…well, it might be true, but not in a complimentary way. Lockhart had covered everything in pink, wearing pink robes himself, and recommending that students seek out Snape to teach them how to make love potions (by this point, of course, they were late enough into the year that even first years knew better than to attempt such, even had they missed Snape's uncontrollable twitching and venomous glare at no one in particular). And Lockhart had also hired a bunch of dwarfs to go around…carrying bows and reciting poetry? …Harry didn't even know if there were words to sufficiently describe his disbelief of the entire thing. He was starting to think Lockhart _was_ an evil mastermind, because who else could turn Hogwarts into…_this_?

It was a nightmare for most of the boys in the school, but a few of the girls were giggly to the verge of hysteria, including Parvati Patil, Lavender Brown…and, surprisingly enough, _Hermione_.

Perhaps she'd spent too long in the library?

Still, he managed to avoid most of the worst of Lockhart's excesses (and was quite pleased with himself for it), and was heading for the library when a dwarf managed to tackle him to the ground as he attempted to flee, to sing him his Valentine.

Singing Valentines. _Ugh_. To make matters worse, Ginny Weasley and Draco Malfoy were nearby to witness his humiliation.

"His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad/His hair is as black as a blackboard…" the dwarf sang. Harry glared down at his broken bag. He didn't have that many of them, just the one, so he quietly stuffed everything back in as best he could, and then cast a quiet _reparo_ on it under the dwarf's singing. He conceded only that the dwarf had a good singing voice, if a bit deep for a Valentine that was supposed to be from a child….

"Aww. What a shame, Weasley. Looks like he doesn't like your Valentine," Malfoy said, scorn dripping from his words, a sneer plastered onto his face as he looked down his nose at the youngest Weasley. Ginny drew back into herself, shaking and crying.

That did it. Harry'd made her cry enough over the summer. He frowned, and then stood from where he was trying to better arrange his materials in his schoolbag, to glare at Malfoy. Malfoy's smirk widened, and Harry closed his eyes, taking a few deep breaths, and then returning a pleasant smile to Malfoy's smirk.

"Sorry, Malfoy, I'm sure you worked very hard on your little Valentine, but I'm not interested. Besides, how would Pansy feel if she knew?" He shook his head in mock disappointment. "I might offer you some advice on how to—"

"Shut it, Potter. I wasn't speaking to you," Malfoy said, his expression turning ugly. "That was _not_ my Valentine, and I have _no_ interest in a blood-traitor like you."

"Then why do you go out of your way to torment me? I only respond to your jeers, and never pick a fight, myself."

Something about his own words tried to strike him in the head, here, but he was too busy, preoccupied with punishing Malfoy for being himself, because when people said that, they assumed "yourself" wasn't anything like a Malfoy.

Where was Ron to hit someone, when you needed him?

"I mean—" he cocked his head at an inquisitive angle, "If I'm beneath your notice—"

"Good Lord, Potter! I hadn't thought the basic niceties of human interaction were outside your knowledge. I 'torment' you because you insulted me first! Don't you know what the word 'enemies' means?"

Harry just smiled in return, and glanced over at Ginny to see if she was any better. She shot him a wide-eyed, hunted look, and he cocked his head at her, brows furrowed, trying to puzzle out the response. Was she…afraid of him? It didn't make sense.

He sighed. He hoped they hadn't undone all the progress they'd made this last summer. But then, it wasn't as if they hung out, or anything. Had he spoken to her at all over the last year? He frowned. He couldn't recall.

Malfoy stormed off under threat of having another wand stolen and broken, and Harry shouldered his bag, and went over to Ginny.

"Sorry about Malfoy," he said. "But if you're upset about the poem…well, if it_ is _yours, and I'm not saying it is, you probably should deliver it yourself, next time, hmm? Only, I don't think those deep voices the dwarfs all seem to have lend themselves to girls' poetry…."

She looked down at her feet, and said nothing.

"Come now, Ginny. Are we no longer on speaking terms? What's wrong?" he asked, trying to be as calm and gentle as possible. He stood before her, reaching out a hand…but he wasn't sure what he would do with it. He let it fall.

"Still nothing? Well, if you ever want to talk, you know where to find me," he said, with another smile. Then he turned, waved, and walked away.

* * *

A week later, the diary of Tom Riddle went missing. And a few weeks after that, the attacks started up again. Yes, Tom Riddle was now considered _definitely_ suspicious.

The latest attack served as something of a breaking point; the time for desperate measures had arrived. At least now almost all of Hufflepuff in his year (there was no convincing Zacharias Smith) now believed in his innocence. All it had cost him was Hermione.

It started out with Gryffindor's second quidditch match of the season, Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw. Or perhaps before that, when Hermione had been twirling her porridge about with a spoon, only to leap to her feet, crying, "Of course! Why didn't I think of it before?" and make a dash for the door.

"_What_ have you figured out?" Harry asked, with perhaps a slight edge to his voice. The match started early in the morning, because quidditch matches had been known to go on for…a long time. He himself had time to eat breakfast only because he'd elected to get up early for just that purpose. Ron was still a bit groggy, but Harry knew he'd wake up before the match started. Harry was thinking of the match, mostly—the Heir of Slytherin had made no move, unless it were to steal the diary, and trash his corner of the boys dormitories a few weeks prior.

"It's about the monster…oh, don't worry, I'll tell you later, I just have to be sure! I won't miss the match. Be careful. I'll be right back!"

And off she zipped, before even Ron could think of stopping her.

"Wonder what she's figured out," Harry mused. Ron just looked as if he were thinking very hard about something, but Harry knew better than to ask what. Almost certainly, he was just trying to figure out what it was that Hermione had figured out concerning the monster. Or, possibly, what had prompted her epiphany.

Harry did not begrudge her the unplanned excursion to the library. Wishing her luck, he finished his pumpkin juice, and went off to the pitch to change into his team robes. But the match was not to be.

As they were all filing onto the grass, to make the team line-up before the game, Professor McGonagall came striding towards them.

"I'm sorry, everyone!" she announced as she walked. "Due to unforeseen circumstances, today's match—and all subsequent matches—has been canceled. Please return to your dormitories in a peaceful, calm manner, and await further information."

Wood stared at her as if she'd just announced all of this in Dutch…or some other language he didn't speak.

"Mr. Potter," she said. "I must have a word with you. Please, come with me."

_What can I __possibly__ have done this time?_ Harry couldn't help wondering, as if it were a reflex. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ron making his way down through the stands, as if he could tell that Harry needed his presence particularly just then. It took him less than a minute to make his way from where he'd been entrenched over to Harry and Professor McGonagall. He looked much more alert (and rather warier) than he had a few minutes ago.

"Yes, Mr. Weasley, I think you should come too," McGonagall said, her voice grave, but devoid of reproach. Harry's stomach began to sink, as she began to walk back towards the castle. For once, she explained as they walked—perhaps because she wasn't angry with them, for once.

She waited to begin her explanation, however, until she'd thrown open the double doors, and they'd passed through into the Great Hall, passed through the Great Hall, and were heading down the corridor that led to and from the Hall. "I'm afraid I have some bad news for the both of you. There has been another attack…another _double_ attack."

Harry glanced down at the flagstones of the castle floor. He glanced over at Ron, whose fists were clenched, eyes likewise downcast, and turned to Professor McGonagall.

"Who is it?" Harry asked, even as Ron asked,

"Professor, have you seen Hermione?"

And that confirmed it. They were both thinking the same thing. McGonagall's lips tightened, as if she were about to assign them a week's detention, but….

"Very well, I see that you have figured it out for yourselves. The name of the second victim would hold little significance to you, but—"

She threw open the door to the Hospital Wing, and, with an incoherent cry, Ron seemed almost to simply appear at the bedside of the girl with frizzy brown hair, the one clutching something tight in her grip. There was another girl, with curly brown hair, in a bed nearby, but she was older, and had a ravenclaw prefect's badge pinned to her robes.

Harry trudged towards Hermione, barely glancing at the other victim. _Now, they have gone too far_, said an inner voice that would not be quelled. It cried for _vengeance_, but he had nothing to give it.

Today, he and Ron would go to Hagrid, as soon as they were able, to follow up their most promising lead. Harry was not often moved to great fits of anger, but he could sense it now, bubbling beneath the surface. Was it that Hermione had been harmed, or that he'd just lost one of his few pillars holding him up?

He bent down next to her, gaze fixed upon the hand clutching something tight. She must have found something….

"She was holding this," Professor McGonagall said, holding out a small, round, compact makeup mirror. Despite his resentment of the distraction, he recognised the importance of observing whatever it was that she'd found. Harry stared at it, nonplussed. "I don't suppose either of you knows the significance of it—"

"No, Professor," he said, his voice curt, stating without words that she would get no more from him—at least nothing useful. Her eyebrows rose—she'd seen him in some rather disheartening situations before, but he'd never been _rude_ to her.

Harry's hands clenched into tight fists, and he thought of all those times when he'd lashed out without cause. Now, he _had_ cause, and therefore needed to wait to find out _who was behind this_, before he made a move. In the interim, he would let the need for blood simmer below the surface, let it be that much more vicious the punishment when he finally discovered the culprit. They would know better than to trifle with him….

He knew that pattern of thoughts, recognised them, and, for the first time, he very much did not care. Whatever it took to _avenge_ Hermione. Whatever it took to restore her. He could commit himself to such an undertaking; indeed, he thought it was only to be expected, _required_ of him.

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley. If you have no more understanding to contribute, I shall leave the two of you to…adjust." And, swiping what looked suspiciously like tears from her eyes, she snuck out of the Hospital Wing to give them privacy.

She missed Harry's bitter laugh, as he glanced back down at Hermione. "Adjust"? This was not something that could be _adjusted_ to. Adjusting meant accepting it, and he refused to do that. This was far from the end.

Had he brought her to this?

So still…not even her chest rising and falling to show that she was still breathing, because she wasn't. She hung suspended in time.

Was this how it had been for Captain America, frozen in the ice? For how long would she remain this way? A thousand irrelevant thoughts drifted across the surface of his mind, senseless observations, some trying to get his attention; a futile endeavour, when one had already latched on, and jealously warded off all others.

What was school to him? What was quidditch? Hermione was his friend, and, dare he say it, he suspected that that was the reason for her current state.

"Whoever did this, they will pay for it. They will regret it, if it is the last thing I do," he announced to no one in particular, put in mind of Ron over a year ago, in the common room, looking down at the drawing Dean had made.

Ron's gaze did not leave Hermione. He reached out to touch her, and recoiled, perhaps at the stillness; perhaps because she was cold as stone to the touch.

Cold as ice.

"I will help. I will do whatever is required," Ron said, his voice quieter than usual, full of that same, quiet gravity.

_Together, then_, Harry thought. Those were good odds, two against one. Or two against two, perhaps, if the real culprit were Tom Riddle, agency masked behind another actor. Harry's fists clenched so tight, he would be surprised if they weren't bleeding.

There was little else to say besides, in that moment. A strange sort of understanding had formed between them, one half-familiar, half-strange. Harry leant back on that sense of familiarity, to let it serve as a guide. First things first, he was required to convinced Hagrid, if he still needed convincing, to guide them through the forest.

Of course, that was not how things turned out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know it takes extreme extenuating circumstances for Harry to peel away even _part_ of his protective denial. But to stay that way for _months_? Aww, he _does_ care about Hermione.


	16. Take the Left-Hand Path

Instead of gaining a guide and protector through the Forest, they bore witness to the removal of Hagrid from the grounds, Lucius Malfoy's shining triumph. Harry was disgusted at the display, at the cruel pleasure Malfoy was feeling at this turn of events, at that superior strut. He couldn't look.

Dumbledore accompanied a man Harry didn't know, and Lucius Malfoy, to Hagrid's cabin. There was enough forewarning for Harry and Ron to hide under the invisibility cloak (good thing he'd taken to bringing it everywhere with him, eh?), and then the trio entered. Harry hoped that they hadn't been watching Hagrid's door to see who came and went, or it would be highly suspicious that the two of them had entered, but never left.

They didn't seem to be, however. The man in the pinstripe suit was twirling his hat in his hands—probably a nervous habit.

"I'm afraid I must ask you to come with us, Hagrid. Given recent circumstances, the parents of schoolchildren have written to say that they would feel…reassured…to know that you were no longer on the premises. As you were expelled for committing the crimes before—"

"But where are you taking me?" he asked, voice shaking. "Not—not _Azkaban_?"

"Merely a precaution," said the man with the hat, twirling it ever more vigorously. "It's only for a little while…the school year is almost over."

"I believe I have expressed that Hagrid has my full confidence," said Dumbledore, turning to face the other two. He did not seem to want Hagrid to leave, at least. It was good that someone at least was vouching for Hagrid; Harry wasn't sure he'd have been able to restrain himself, otherwise. Looks like he'd discovered where Malfoy got his insufferable cruelty from.

Lucius Malfoy stood back and watched the show, only the gleam of his eyes betraying his delight at recent events. When the good suffer, the bad rejoice, right?

"Ah, yes. Well, the truth is, I also have a signed decrees from the Board…seems that recent…tragedies have made them lose faith in you…a unanimous decision. I will have to ask you to step down from your position as Headmaster, and leave the grounds."

"No!" Hagrid cried. "You can't make Dumbledore leave the school. I'll bet his presence is the only reason the monster doing this is holding back. There'll be killings next, with Dumbledore gone!"

Harry understood the sentiment, but winced under the cloak. Hagrid sounded as if he were threatening just that, as if he _were_ in control of the monster.

"Certainly I will step aside, if that is what they request of me," said Dumbledore, his voice calm and courteous. "But I think you will find that I have only truly left this school when none remain who are loyal to me."

His eyes seemed to flick to their corner, and Harry held his breath. Did he see them? Or was he, perhaps, powerful enough to sense a certain distortion in the magic, betraying their presence? He'd never bothered to check whether there were any ambient magic in Hagrid's cabin…there'd always been something else weighing heavy on his mind….

"But sir! You can't—"

Dumbledore just smiled benevolently. "Help will always be given at Hogwarts, to those who need it, regardless of whether or not I am here. It is a place of safety, protected from those of ill-intent by long-forgotten magic. The students will be safe.

"Come, Hagrid, the sooner we leave, the sooner we can do something worthwhile here—"Hagrid slumped, and then straightened up, determined, it seemed, to leave with his pride intact, rather than being taken in like a criminal. But he paused in the doorway, and turned his head back to address the empty cabin.

"If anyone wanted to learn the secrets of what's behind all this, the best advice I could give him is to follow the spiders. That will set him right. And someone needs to take care of Fang!"

And with those highly suspicious words, Hagrid stormed out of his own house. Harry's first, rather foolish thought, was that someone indeed needed to look after Hagrid's dog while Hagrid was gone. Then he remembered what Hagrid had said last year: nothing in the forest would harm them as long as he or Fang was with them. And they knew that the acromantulai were the Forest's denizens.

He waited with bated breath for the footsteps to die down, and then threw off the cloak.

"It appears," he said, standing straight and glaring about the room, "that we have a change in plans. I shall bring Fang. We will still go into the Forest tonight. We shall simply need to split up and search different areas, and meet back here before twelve. If I'm not back by then…well, you seem to have your ways of finding me."

And, unclipping Fang's lead from the wall, and attaching it to his collar, he left the house, hands tightly clenched once more, this time against the blatant injustice of it all.

Ron followed.

* * *

After ensuring for at least the third time that Ron would rather that Harry had whatever special protection Fang's mere presence supposedly afforded, Harry gave in. They didn't have forever in which to conduct their search, and the day's events had worn them out rather. Hermione petrified, Hagrid and Dumbledore expelled from Hogwarts, and all this after fretting over a silly quidditch match.

He was, however, wide-awake, as they went their separate ways, plans made to rendezvous in a few hours. Ron didn't have a watch, but he was good at telling time with…apparently no discernable means at all. Harry still had the watch he'd found discarded amongst Dudley's broken playthings. This was neither a plaything nor broken. It might have just been overlooked, but it had served him well thus far, and the Dursleys did not seem to have noticed its absence.

The plan was fairly simple: as they had last year, they would head in opposite directions into the woods, and try to find the acromantulai. Ron clearly had his misgivings about seeking out giant spiders, but apparently the thought of Hermione laid out in the Hospital Wing fortified him, because he made no complaints, merely nodded his assent, and strode off deeper into the woods.

And Harry was alone with a whimpering, cowering Fang. Would he provide any protection at all? It was hard to believe. But he'd brought Fang with him; he might as well see how things went.

He judged how far he was in the woods by the quality of the light overhead—how it filtered through the trees, how well-lit the path before him was. There was no unicorn blood to light the way, as there had been before. But a quiet _lumos_ provided him with enough light that he could easily see where he was going. Pointing it around the forest would do little to warn him of any threats, but it was tempting to do just that, nonetheless.

It seemed to take hours to push his way through—he was taller now than he had been last year, and the branches of the trees were greater obstruction than before, but, more than that, he had no idea how to handle the coming…conversation? How would the acromantulai respond to him? The bestiary entry he'd read had mentioned that older acromantulai were capable of human speech, but, if Aragog had been in the Forbidden Forest since he was small enough to fit into a box…would he ever have learnt?

Perhaps Hagrid often came to visit him, had taught him English over the years. Why send them to speak with the acromantulai if they would be unable to communicate?

Suppose Fang wasn't protection enough? Fang was middle-aged, for a dog. Would the acromantulai really bother to learn the appearance and distinguishing traits of every dog that Hagrid had ever owned? Dogs—especially big dogs, as Fang was—tended to live shorter lives. How many dogs had come and gone in Hagrid's life since Aragog was sent into the Forbidden Forest?

Perhaps he needed to think this through, before he accidentally stumbled upon their lair. He began to build an escape plan. Fire was useful, here, because trees were made of wood, and wood was flammable. But he didn't know what their lair might look like. Nonetheless…he knew plenty of spells for combat. And then, added onto that, was the _other_ kind of magic.

He considered it ominous when his arms and legs began to burn, and silver fire to course through his veins. Mother's love. A warning of coming danger. What was she trying to protect him from, though? Was it, perhaps, the acromantulai, themselves? He remembered Hagrid saying that nothing indigenous to the Forest would harm them if he or Fang was with them… was there an intruder? Was Hagrid wrong?

His guard was up, now, his sixth and seventh senses opened as far as they could be. That took a distracting amount of focus, and it was difficult to do that and to pay attention for signs that Fang sensed danger. But he pressed on, even as Mother's love solidified as armour around him, changing colour to that not-quite-familiar underlit green and black. Anyone who saw him thus would think him a slytherin, for sure.

Suddenly, Fang growled, gaze whipping around a clearing, as the rustling of breaking leaves reached his ears. Last year's foliage, it was already brittle and well-decayed, muffling the sound, somewhat.

Harry's gaze followed Fang's. No warning in his own sixth and seventh senses, but here came a spider the size of Fang. An acromantula. Mentally, he compared the size of it to the size of Hagrid's box. It was bigger, which might mean that it spoke English.

Well, he had to try… except, now the spider was trying to tie him up with thick, ropey webbing. It burnt off whenever it came into contact with his skin or Mother's armour—in other words, whenever it came too close to him. Mother's love was silver fire, after all.

But he did not intend to be brought before their leader as a prisoner. And what of the protection that Fang was supposed to offer? None, after all. It might have been true that they wouldn't harm someone accompanied by Hagrid (for various reasons) but the same could not be said of Fang. That made sense. But it also meant that he and Malfoy (and Malfoy and Ron) had been in greater danger than they had realised, last year.

Ah, well, no help for that now. Time to try to figure out how to go about this.

"Hello, my name is Harry Potter," he said, and internally rolled his eyes at the statement. Somewhat stupid to be introducing yourself even as you formed a shield and carefully catalogued whatever spells you could think of to fight with. He remembered Loki forming daggers, somehow, last year in the battle against Quirrell, but couldn't, for the life of him, figure out how. He'd spent _ages_ of practice trying to figure it out.

"I have no desire to fight you," he said. "I merely wish to speak with your leader, Aragog." The acromantula chittered in response. He held up the shield, and reconsidered the merits of brandishing a weapon. The acromantula said nothing, but it did turn, and scuttle away.

"Go on. Go back to Hagrid's," Harry said, letting go Fang's lead. No use dragging Fang into potential danger, too. He might be alone, against heavy odds, but having to protect Hagrid's dog wouldn't help with that. Belatedly, as he was half-watching Fang turn tail and run, he considered that maybe Aragog would recognise Fang, when this lesser spider did not. But was it worth the risk?

He followed the acromantula through the trees, ducking branches that did not hinder the much shorter acromantula, making his way through progressively denser undergrowth. There did not seem to be a path, which perhaps made sense. Or, perhaps, it was the forest, being its usual self, and defeating all attempts to tame it, even those made by supernatural creatures.

The spider led him into the sylvan equivalent of a cave—a broad opening of trees leading into darkness, where leaves and branches intertwined to block out all light. His sense of foreboding grew tenfold. He remembered that spiders worked best in the dark—were most active at night—and refused to relinquish his _lumos_ spell, although it did little to penetrate the unnatural darkness of the acromantula nest.

"Hello?" he called out. "My name is Harry Potter. Is Aragog, Lord of the Acromantulai, here? Hagrid sent me. He told me that you could answer some questions."

A shadow, dark against even the darkness of the cave, shuffled into view. Harry resisted the urge to increase the amount of light his wand produced.

"Hagrid sent you, you say? Hagrid is an old friend of mine. I owe him a great deal. He raised me and protected me, hatching me from an egg, and has given me everything that I might desire. He even found a mate for me, which I know must have been quite difficult for him. I will answer your questions, friend of Hagrid."

Harry resisted the urge to remind the spider that he had a name. "There's a monster loose in the school, turning people to stone," he said; no sense beating around the bush. His skin was crawling, though whether from that creeping sensation of danger, of eyes upon him, watching him…hungry, or on account of actual spiders, he couldn't tell. "Hagrid set you free when the monster-"

All around him, a chorus of anxious chittering, and Aragog cut him off.

"We do not speak of it! It is a dread creature, indeed, one that has slain many acromantulai such as myself. Fear it! Where the Founder of Slytherin House found such a monstrosity, I neither know nor care! This only will I tell you—it poses no less threat for men than acromantulai, for its venom is powerful beyond all others, and its gaze will turn a man to stone, or kill him…that is how the girl died…Myrtle was her name. Yes, how well I remember. Do you have any more questions for me, friend of Hagrid?"

_Say yes, say yes_, cried whatever voice was warning him of impending danger. But doubtless Aragog could see him better than he could see the spider, and it seemed he also could read expressions. Harry could see some vast shape turn, heading back to its den. A host of giant spiders advanced on him. He understood.

"Hagrid said we would not be harmed!" he cried. "Have you no respect for his wishes?"

The spider king paused in its scuttling. "I respect Hagrid a great deal. I would not harm Hagrid were he to come here, and I have ordered that my children likewise leave him be. But I cannot deny them a meal when it wanders so freely into our midst. Goodbye, friend of Hagrid."

Harry knew that, first of all, he needed to get out of the "cave". There was no point in setting the grove ablaze—there were too many acromantulai. The more of them he killed, the greater the future vendetta against him. He did not want to kill one of Hagrid's friends—by all accounts, the only spider who might be willing to spare him. Had it been Aragog alone, he thought he would have made it out without trouble. It was all the lesser acromantulai—his descendants—that were the problem.

Mother's armour provided some protection, and the silver shield on his arm added to it, but now he needed to take the offensive.

Focus. Desire. Energy. Or, was it better to stick to the spells he knew? He focused hard on the _lumos_ spell currently dimly illuming the clearing-cave. Spiders thrived in the dark. If he could fill the clearing in light….

They squealed, and he could hear sibilant curses directed his way, arachnid hisses of pain, but that did not stall them for long.

Insufficient.

A wall of ice sprang up before him, but it was so thin, it would never last. He retreated, keeping a wary eye behind him. He staggered, feeling the drain of using such a spell, unpracticed, across such a broad area, but knew he had to keep going. Acromantulai threw themselves against his wall, and it cracked, and then almost immediately shattered. But only a few could come through that gap at a time.

He shot familiar spells, _reducto_ and _confringo_ and _stupefy_, meanwhile backing away, trying to increase the distance.

He managed to erect a second wall of ice, this one thicker. He had enough practice that it wasn't draining him as much as he might have expected, and the ice had staying power. The second wall connected to the first, forming a box with four thick sides, and the fourth, thin one, the original wall. He could feel the drain on his reserves, and yet….

He was maintaining two spells, and he'd just used quite a bit of energy in creating his icebox. He'd definitely feel that tomorrow (he wondered when he'd wake up). He was aware that it was adrenaline, first and foremost, that was keeping him moving.

Hoping that Ron somehow avoided the acromantulai altogether, he turned and ran.

* * *

Thor left Harry alone with the greatest misgivings, not knowing just how justified those were. He knew that he didn't trust spiders, ever since that trick the Twins had played on him when he'd been only about two years old. Ron Weasley had been terrified of spiders, to the point of not being able to handle having one in the same room as him, if he spotted it. Ginny had rolled her eyes, and either squashed or removed the inoffensive bugs.

That was before. That dread was muted considerably by the influx of memories. He could work past it, now. He thought he would have learnt it, eventually, anyway, even had he never regained his memories. But, despite all that, it was telling, even to him, that he was willing to brave the spiders' lair for the cause.

And what was the cause? That was a question he didn't think he quite wanted to answer for himself. Yes, he felt the need to protect the entire school (he was a god, and they were up against…well, a monster, at the very least), but it wasn't just the need to protect the innocent at work, here, and he knew it.

Hermione was his friend. She wasn't a relative of any sort, and yet he'd grown attached to her. That was problematic. He had always been the sort who made friends easily, always been the "life of the party" as mortals called it.

That had never been a problem before, but he recognised to himself that it was, here. Mortals lived such short lives, and then they died. But most of them would live past their forties, and wizards, he knew from what Dad had said, were longer-lived than ordinary humans. Than muggles. Someday, he would tell Hermione Granger who he really was, and how would she react to that? Would she feel lied to, betrayed? Would she refuse to speak with him ever again? Had he taken the place of whatever real friends she was meant to have made here at Hogwarts? Was it selfish, to keep Hermione as his friend, when, one way or another, it was bound to end in heartbreak?

He wished that he could ask his brother. He was sure Loki would have had an answer for him, probably laden with amused condescension. But that was in a time before. He was on his own, now. Again, he became keenly aware of all he had lost. Was he being selfish, however? Was selfishness what had brought him here, after all?

He was absorbed in these sorts of thoughts when he suddenly tensed, wary. He'd heard something, but he wasn't sure what it was. A rustling, the shifting of a branch, not caused by wind…. Who knew? But now he was alert, wary, looking around. It might be an acromantula….

It was not. He started, despite himself, and then shook his head out of whatever thoughts it had become lodged in. He'd heard of them, of course, had known that they lived in the Forbidden Forest, even, but he'd never encountered a centaur before. He didn't know how to react to them.

An arrow whipped past his cheek to hit the tree behind him. A warning shot, telling him to stop. He did.

He braced himself, wary, relying on that sense of space that had always served him in combat before, Loki would perhaps have called it a _sixth sense_, after the mortal term for it. He didn't know.

"Who goes there, and what are you doing in our forest?" demanded the centaur who had shot at him.

"There is something different about this one, Ronan," said another of the centaurs. "What child would venture into the heart of our forest, in the middle of the night?"

"Hagrid advised us to ask the acromantulai of the forest what was causing the attacks at the school," Thor began to explain, and then halted when the black-haired one, the one who had most recently spoken, glared at him. He was not here to start a war, as he reminded himself.

Still he braced himself, his body automatically readying itself for the fight. Ronan might have no quarrel with him, but he sensed that the black-haired centaur was much as he had himself been, as his past self back in Asgard still was—eager for the fight, looking to prove himself, to vent any internal turmoil, to triumph. Battle rush was its own reward.

There were five centaurs, in all. Most of them were just out-of-sight, and it was possible that he'd missed even more.

He had the vague sense that he'd seen a handful of centaurs galloping off as the blond one—Firenze—had deposited a shaking Harry on the forest floor at the end of last year's disastrous detention. They'd been too preoccupied to notice him then, he supposed, or perhaps they hadn't thought twice about him, when Hagrid had been accompanying him. The glimpse he'd had of them was fleeting, as if they'd never intended to stay long, and found humans distasteful.

That was probably not a good sign. Probably as great of a warning as the black-haired centaur's belligerent glare.

Said centaur approached closer, paused, eyes narrowed, and scuffed at the mulch underfoot with his left front hoof. He tilted his head. Looked down on Thor.

"You…who are you?" he asked. A thread of caution in his voice, now. Why?

"I am Ron Weasley. A student up at the school," he began, but the centaur scoffed, whinnied, and then folded his arms over his chest. Hmm.

"Who are you, really?" he demanded. "Or rather, _what_ are you?"

His mouth went dry. He reminded himself, again, that he had no quarrel with them, that he was not seeking for a confrontation, and that Harry would doubtless be most displeased with him, should he pick a fight. With complete justification.

He hesitated too long. The centaur snorted, a very horsey sound, and clarified, "What manner of being are you, then? I will say this: we centaurs follow the gods of Greece, and have little enough dealings with those of other realms. Do not think that we will bow and scrape before you, no matter what or who you are. Lord Apollo will protect us."

Oh. He bowed his head. He had no idea how they could tell, but apparently, they _could_. Being reborn as a mortal wasn't enough, somehow. He held up his empty hands to show that he was unarmed, although that was about as accurate a gauge of threat level for a god as…well, it was a step below their spoken word that no harm would come to you.

"I mean you no harm," he said, in quite a different voice from that he'd used previously. "I seek only to pass through your forest, to speak with the acromantulai. I have no quarrel with your people—"

"Who are you? Identify yourself, and we will consider your words."

Bold, for a man who knew he addressed a god. Thor's head rose, his back straightened, head tilted back, arms folded in a pose that should have mirrored the black-haired, belligerent centaur's, and yet somehow looked quite different on Thor.

And not just because he was currently thirteen years old.

"Bane," the first centaur was saying, "perhaps you should back off a bit. You don't know what he is—"

"Bane" scoffed, turning his head slightly to address Ronan. "Either a god, or the child of one. But not one of the gods we follow. Tell us, then," he said, turning back to Thor. "And perhaps we can resolve things…_peacefully_."

The last word, spoken with distaste. Loki would find this situation hilarious, Thor was sure. With Harry off in the woods, he supposed it was inevitable that Thor would keep dwelling on what Loki would have done, in his place. Perhaps they shouldn't have split up—

"As you request," he said. "My name is Thor, son of Odin, Crown Prince of Asgard. Not under pain of violence or death do I ask your permission to travel through this forest. I have no quarrel with your people, I say again."

They tensed at his name, staring, Bane with his eyes narrowed, of course, probably wondering if he was that tough, if it came to blows. Had Thor truly once been that foolish?

His brother's voice, warning him a thousand times that he _should not seek __out__ fights_. And yet, he couldn't help it, couldn't help assessing the centaurs, how tough of opponents they would be. Bane, by all accounts the rashest, probably had some cause for it—and he carried no bow. He might be a challenge.

But that was not why Thor was here.

"We have heard the name," Bane said. Ronan threw out a hand to stop him, stepping forwards.

"We have heard that bloodshed and violence follow in your wake. That you seek out the thrill of battle. It is your driving force."

"I have changed," he said, lowering his gaze. "I have different priorities, now. Watch my every move if you mistrust my words, but I have spoken the truth. It is beneath my dignity to lie. I swear on my honour that I come here with peaceful intentions. War might follow in my wake, but it would not be a battle of my own making."

There was no reason to believe that they'd meet his present-day self. Still, it felt slightly disingenuous, and that, in turn, chafed at him. Again the question: since when was _he_ the liar?

Again the answer: but this is not quite a _lie_, now is it?

"Then, that is what we shall do," said Ronan, before Bane could interrupt, to pick a fight. The Loki, then, to Bane's Thor. Perhaps, there always was one. "We shall accompany you through our forest, Odinsson, but we warn you: these are protected woods, and greater threats than we patrol its depths. Be on your guard, and do not think we are helpless just because you do not _see_ our guardians."

A threat he could not ignore. His hands clenched into fists, but he lowered his gaze, reminding himself that he was Ron Weasley, and Ron Weasley would never have as much freedom or recourse as _Thor Odinsson_. He would have to use his wits, such as they were, and make his own path.

"You have my gratitude," he said, bowing, one hand over his heart. A thought struck him: hadn't Harry made much the same gesture, last year? But the light had been poor—it always was, in these woods—and Harry had been far away, and everything had been a flurry of motion. And that was a year ago. He couldn't be sure. Perhaps it was mere wishful thinking.

Perhaps.

A few minutes later, when he'd barely gotten any further, something very nearly crashed into him, but he dodged automatically, and the figure tripped on its own feet, before standing upright, if shaky, on its feet. He registered first the ripped black cloak, and then the hair filled with twigs. His brother. How—?

"I think we should go, now," Harry said, sounding a bit uneasy, gaze snapping back behind him. Thor could feel the centaurs watching.

"But the acromantulai—" Thor began.

"—know little more than what we knew ourselves, and are unwilling to reveal what they know besides. Now, they're trying to kill me, because I'm a free meal to them, so let's _go_, Ron."

Thor glanced around at the trees. "_Now_, preferably," said Harry. He barely sounded out of breath, but he was swaying where he stood. Thor glanced around at the forest, gaze meeting with a pair of dark eyes. A motion in the trees: _Go on, then_, it seemed to say.

"Then we shall leave," he said, with a sigh. He'd accomplished absolutely nothing, and Harry had almost died, again. They needed to come up with better plans. And perhaps find a way to placate the centaurs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: originally the last scene was going to be its own chapter, and there wasn't going to be a chapter titled "Take the Right-Hand Path", which is the next chapter, by the way.  
But that wasn't how things turned out. The scene turned out a lot shorter, and there were more metaphorical reasons why "Take the Right-Hand Path" could still work for the next chapter's title.  
Some chapters just don't want to be named. Saved me the trouble of coming up with a new name. I know, lazy of me.


	17. Take the Right-Hand Path

It was just as well they'd made their journey the night before, because, after a night's conference, the teachers (those who remained) had had some sort of congress, wherein they'd decided on new…_safety measures_. Such as that no student could walk the halls unaccompanied by an adult. And indeed, they were supposed to travel in great masses of people. Harry, never exactly _bad_ with people, was beginning to feel a bit twitchy. Apparently, he wasn't as good in large groups as he'd previously believed.

That was his primary qualm with the constant added security and supervision they now had to endure (which included security _trolls_, which was both somewhat alarming, and a painful reminder of Hermione's current incapacitation). Right now, he had little idea how to further their investigation of the cause of Hogwarts's current misfortunes. There was only one lead, and it would probably take quite a bit of work to get any information from that one lead (approaching Aragog again might almost be preferable). Myrtle was not known for being easy to speak with.

He wondered what had become of Tom Riddle's diary, but that lead had gone, one way or another. Was he the culprit? Or a witness capable of exposing the true Heir? Had someone, perhaps, threatened him to silence him, and that was why he'd shown Harry the memory of catching Hagrid? That wasn't the impression Harry had had….

He began to realise that, in fact, he would most likely be forced to resort to asking Myrtle. And that meant somehow finding a way to circumvent the teachers' well-intentioned protections.

He wasn't stupid; he knew that there was merit to the old saying about "safety in numbers", the school's current strategy. He would bring Ron with him. But that complicated things again.

In the end, he somehow convinced Ron to sneak out under the invisibility cloak, to speak with Myrtle in her bathroom. Hoping that she would be there; it was impossible to be sure beforehand, and she had the run of the school.

"Just…let me talk to her," Harry sighed. "Hermione seemed convinced that she was _almost_ friendly towards me."

He shoved aside the pang at the thought of Hermione, still unconscious, still as stone (or lithified) in the Hospital Wing. Ron bowed his head, and said nothing. Harry was sure that he was thinking of Hermione, too.

The snuck through the (mostly) empty halls in complete silence. Harry was almost inclined to scoff at how much laxer security was in the middle of the night (wasn't that when most villains acted, by stereotype?). But they passed through the school in utter silence, taking special care not to make any noise as they snuck past the troll guarding the entrance to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, and Harry pulled the door open _very_ slowly.

They slipped inside with the minimum amount of space possible, and then Harry waited for the door to click shut, scanning the room for anyone else before he pulled off the invisibility cloak. He didn't see anyone, but Myrtle might still be lurking within earshot. Ghosts could walk through walls, and Myrtle had mentioned hiding out in the plumbing, for whatever reason.

"Myrtle? Are you here?" he called, too aware of how noisy his whisper sounded. Well, perhaps this hadn't been the best idea, but if she couldn't hear that whisper, then they would leave, and perhaps come back during a break, tomorrow. He'd just have to figure out how to give the professor-escorts the slip. He thought that he could figure out how to do that.

Ron tensed, too, at the noise, but relaxed when no troll came barging in to club them on the head. Although it was probably less the prospect of fighting a troll in a bathroom to defend Hermione, again, and more the thought of being caught by the professors and having to answer to them that he was dreading.

Whatever.

Myrtle appeared a few seconds later, looking almost cheerful.

She glanced back and forth, between the two of them, and then a puzzled frown graced her face. "You came to visit!" she said, smiling at the two of them. "But say, where's your ugly friend? The one with the messy hair?"

"Hermione is not ugly—" Ron began, but Harry shot him a look, and turned to Myrtle.

"I know you and Hermione don't get on, but she is our friend, and I would appreciate it if you didn't insult her," he said.

"If she starts showing me the same respect," Myrtle interrupted, frowning. "Did you just come here to criticise me? Because I can go back to the toilets, where at least no one will tell me I'm not welcome!"

She seemed to be on the verge of tears. Harry reached out a hand towards her—in a gesture, not an attempt to touch her. "I didn't mean that, Myrtle. We came here to see you, that's all. I don't mean to upset you, but…something happened to Hermione. We thought you might be willing to help us. I think you might be the only one who can."

She looked a bit miffed to his admission that he was just here to help his friend, but Harry's last comment seemed to cheer her up. Nothing like being singled out as being special and important to cheer up someone like Myrtle. Ron, watching, came to the decision that he would stop trying to figure out Myrtle. He had no idea how Harry was placating her, or, indeed, how to handle girls in general. Being polite and chivalrous seemed to be of little help.

"Oh, alright," Myrtle said, as if with the greatest possible reluctance. "What do you want to know?"

Harry frowned, ducked his head, shifting his feet, glancing around the room. "I don't know…I don't want to upset you…" he said. "I mean, you're a great person, and you've been so kind as to lend us your bathroom…."

"I'm sure you wouldn't say anything that would offend me," Myrtle said, smiling at him. He wished Hermione were there to hear her say that. "Impossible to please", huh?

"Well," he started again, glancing to Ron, standing there with a pensive frown, staring down at the floor. "I just was wondering…I don't know how to put this—"

"Just tell me!" Myrtle cried, leaning forwards in eager anticipation. She seemed to have forgot her usual air of melancholy and fussiness.

"Well, we were wondering if you would be willing to share with us what you remembered of your own…demise. It would be ever so helpful to us."

Ron could not make it clearer that he couldn't _believe_ what he was hearing and seeing.

Myrtle beamed, as if he'd just told her she was the most beautiful girl in the world. She looked _rapturous._

"Oh, it was _horrible_," she gushed. She was practically squealing with glee, hands clasped before her face. "I was sitting here in the toilets, crying because Olive Hornby had made fun of my new glasses. Stupid chit. I followed her until they hauled me off at her wedding—I already told you that. She never had to wear glasses."

Ron was about to interrupt, to try to get her on track, but she returned to the subject just then on her own. "Well, anyway, as I was sitting here, minding my own business, a _boy_ came into the bathroom. I didn't catch much of him—he was out over by that sink, there, when I opened my stall door. I opened it, see, to tell him that this was a _girls_ bathroom, and that he should find a boys bathroom to use. But I didn't catch more than that brief glimpse before I saw those yellow eyes, looking right at me as I opened the door. And with that, it was all over. Just like that."

She snapped her fingers. They didn't make any noise, and she frowned. "Just those bright yellow eyes, and a sensation of floating away. I was terrified; I wasn't ready; I didn't know what to do…then it felt as if something, some sort of purpose, anchored my soul back to the earth…but in what seemed like only a few seconds, I found that several hours had passed…at first no one saw me as I passed through the halls, but I gained opacity as I lingered on."

Fascinating as her account of life after death was, Harry was more interested in something else she said.

"Myrtle, might I interrupt you for a second?" he asked. He was still looking down at the floor. She smiled at him, still euphoric from whatever kick she got out of narrating the tale of her own death. Of course, _Sir Nick_ occasionally liked to brag about how many blows it had taken to mostly sever his head….

"What is it? What can I help you with?" she asked, not seeming to care that he'd interrupted her narration.

"I was wondering…just which sink was he standing in front of?"

Myrtle zipped off, before settling before the sink in the corner of the room, by the left wall. "This sink's never worked, either. I wonder why he chose this one?"

Harry came closer, examining it. There, on the tap, he saw a small "s" shape, with a slightly thicker head, and a tiny tongue flicking out from that head. Could it be? Well, Slytherin was noted for being a parselmouth. He turned from the sink. He was almost certain of it: this was how the monster entered the school. The sink wouldn't allow for more than a tiny monster to emerge by any normal means, but…well, this _was_ a magic school.

"Thank you, Myrtle," he said, turning to smile at her. "You've been very helpful. You answered more than I thought to ask."

This tap, was it the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets? It must be. But…that snake…if he were right, then there was no point in telling the professors, those who remained, or anyone else. Only Professor Dumbledore might have the skill to bypass whatever precautions Slytherin was bound to have taken to ensure that only one who spoke parseltongue could enter the Chamber, and someone had somehow ensured that he was removed from the school.

The best thing to do, then, was to lay a trap, but…how? Perhaps he could wait here, never leaving until the Heir acted again…but there had always been a matter of weeks between attacks. He couldn't wait forever—sooner or later, he needed to sleep, needed to eat, and if he missed his classes, he risked expulsion, which would do no one any good. Other than the Heir, he was the only known parselmouth in the school, perhaps the _only_ other parselmouth.

He didn't know what to do. Frowning, resolving to think about it, he turned to Ron, who was digesting the same information as Harry, but probably not yet to the state of planning on how to use that information. He nodded to Ron, hoping he understood. Thor probably would have, but, oh, well.

"Thank you, Myrtle. I understand that that must have been very difficult to relive. It was very kind of you to put yourself through that, just to help us."

The sudden increased opacity in her cheeks suggested Myrtle might be blushing.

* * *

It had been over two months since Ginny Weasley had stolen the diary back, and Tom was still seething over how he had been deceived. Imagine anyone pulling the wool over _his_ eyes! He, the Dark Lord, to whom none dared to lie! Of course, part of the reason that he was still seething was that, although the youngest Weasley had stolen it back two months ago, she had then waited for a couple of weeks before writing in it, desperately asking whether or not he'd revealed all of her secrets. He'd kept his silence on the matter: let her stew, as penance for having betrayed him.

How _dared_ she attempt to rid herself of his diary? How had she had strength enough to succeed?

Mostly, he was seething because it had only been a couple of weeks since Weasley had finally cracked, and admitted to him who it was who had briefly come into possession of the diary. None other than Harry Potter. A couple of weeks later, his anger still burnt red-hot. Harry Potter had made him look a fool, but he had seemed so credible, ever the scholars, were Ravenclaws, and his penmanship was so _neat_. He looked as if he'd been using a quill all of his life, and Tom knew for a fact that Potter had been raised by muggles. The thought that "James Ericson" had been lying hadn't even crossed his mind.

But, oh, he wouldn't have dared to lie had they met face-to-face! No one lied to the Dark Lord when they were in the same room, when the Dark Lord had an actual, human body, that he could use to kill, control, torture. But the thing in the diary was merely a horcrux, and, if capable of thought, nevertheless its thoughts were perhaps less complex than they should be. That was his justification, his excuse, for not catching the ruse.

And all it had taken to get Weasley to finally confess to him was forcing her to petrify her closest friend at Hogwarts (in truth, by chance, but he would never admit that to Weasley, it was important that she remain convinced that he knew _everything_). Said friend was, apparently, also a close friend of Potter's, and in her distress, Ginny Weasley had let slip whom it was he'd really spoken to, for that brief span of time.

But he would have his revenge. Ginny was weak and gullible and malleable. In the beginning, she'd merely been naïve enough to put her trust in an invisible stranger…but he'd worn her down, drained her energy, spirit, lifeforce, until she hadn't the strength to resist him, anymore. She clung to life, now, by mere threads. She hadn't realised it at the time, but in her panic, trying to discover what he might have told her…(what did they call them?) her _crush_, she'd spilt out her heart to him again, opened her heart to him again, and he'd used that, once more empowered to chart the course of her life for her. Unfortunately, being bound into a book as he was, he had no eyes with which to see her fear, the dread, the horror, as she realised what she had done. Hey, you couldn't have everything.

But he needed a plan. Some way to make Potter rue the day he'd ever tricked Tom Marvolo Riddle. And one was developing—yes, indeed, for Ginny, whether she realised it or not, was dying. Sooner or later, someone would notice. Unless….

* * *

Ginny Weasley seemed to appear out of nowhere, looking haggard and worn, frail and thin. She shambled over to their table, and sat down without asking permission. Harry was not inclined to scold her.

"I have to—I have to talk to both of you," she said, breathless, as if it were hard to breathe, as if merely talking were exhausting. Her hair was a stringy mess, dirty and somehow dimmed, her face pale, as if drained of blood. "_Please_," she begged, her voice hoarse, and almost a whisper.

"Are you alright, Ginny?" asked Harry, in an attempt at a friendly voice. Something about her seemed…off, to put it mildly. He forgot about his plate in front of him, turning his whole attention to her. "Ginny?" he asked again.

Ron, on her other side, seemed to be holding his breath. Ginny gave a wracking, tearless sob, and took a shuddering breath.

"I have to talk to you. I have to warn you—" she paused, seeming to struggle to find the right words, or perhaps to catch her breath. While they hadn't been paying attention to her, it was as if she'd run afoul of…something, _what_ he could only guess, and now stood at Death's door. How could he have missed that?

He reached out for her, unthinking, took her hand, noticing how it shook. She was speaking to him, so it couldn't be nerves.

"About what?" he pressed. "Does it have something to do with the Chamber of Secrets?"

Didn't everything, this year? It was May, now, and the last two dream sessions, since Valentine's Day, had been spent pondering the mystery of the Chamber of Secrets. Mother hadn't heard of it in her day. She had never researched it, and had little to contribute, but they'd bounced some ideas off one another. She, too, believed in Hagrid's innocence (despite a brief flare of maternal wrath when she heard of Harry's adventure in the Forest). But she couldn't figure it out—a student in Riddle's time had opened the Chamber of Secrets. Was that student now a teacher? Had it been a teacher all along? Or was something else at play?

Mother had also found the cessation of the attacks suspicious. She'd warned Harry to watch out for anyone acting suspicious, for _any_ reason. But the professors all said that same thing. And he'd noticed nothing suspicious, except for Percy Weasley routinely coming into the Hospital Wing to check on the ravenclaw prefect. (Mother had been amused when he'd pointed that out to her, assuring him that Percy's behaviour was… less than suspicious). He'd noticed nothing more even remotely suspicious, and the hufflepuffs had been as good as their word: with Hermione petrified, they'd been eager to bury the hatchet, and to suggest their own names as to who might be behind everything. Ron had played messenger for a still bitter Harry, who grudgingly agreed to give them another chance. But altogether, they still had made no headway. And other than the hufflepuffs being decent to him again, everyone had been acting as normal.

Until now. Because there was nothing normal about Ginny's sudden frailty, the hollow look of despair in her eyes, the sense that if he poked her, she would shatter.

She flinched at the mention of the Chamber of Secrets, and he was, quite suddenly, powerfully reminded of himself, of his own reactions to certain subjects, which once he'd wondered why. He frowned at that thought, realised that she might then think that he was frowning at her, and tried to level the expression out, to reassure her. There was no way that Ginny and he had anything in common, but she was clearly suffering, and he'd upset her plenty before.

When she nodded, as if it were too difficult to speak, he had to think quickly as to what to do next. She was seeking them out because she had knowledge of the Chamber of Secrets. Find out what she knows, reassure her, somehow make everything right again. That was apparently his role here at Hogwarts: not a student, but a protector.

An _avenger_? He hoped not, but he meant to avenge Hermione, so….

But perhaps Ginny needed avenging more.

"Do you know who opened the Chamber of Secrets?" he asked her, flat-out. Something—perhaps his sixth sense, his intuition—told him he would regret beating around the bush. Better to give her a series of yes-or-no questions until they'd laid out an outline of what she might have to say. Perhaps then she would feel better….

He glanced at Ron, who seemed to be exerting great mental focus towards not saying anything. Ginny nodded again. Yes, she knew who was opening the Chamber of Secrets.

"_Help_," she whispered, as if the word came from the bottom of a deep, deep well. "I didn't want to; I didn't know what was happening; he _made_ me—"

But then, abruptly, she stood, turned her back on them, walking away. Ron grabbed hold of her arm (he was insanely fast), as she stood.

"Ginny, are you alright? What are you talking about?"

She laughed. "Nothing. I just thought I'd get back at Harry for his pranks last summer, is all," she said, with a grin that didn't seem to suit her. Her voice was much stronger than it had been seconds ago, and she carried herself differently. Ron frowned in evident confusion. Harry felt his heart skipping a beat.

"Ron, stop her!" he cried, but even as he spoke, Ginny threw off Ron's hand, taking a few steps back, and pointing her suddenly drawn wand at the two of them, eyes narrowed.

"You and Percy, always fretting about your weak, helpless little sister. Honestly, just leave me alone! Final exams are stressful enough without you breathing down my neck!"

And she stormed off, as if nothing had even happened. But Harry understood. He did. He thought to that look in her eyes, haunted, faint. He thought of her plea: _Help me_. His fist clenched, and, in an uncharacteristic display of anger on his part, he slammed his fist down on the table so hard that the ceramic plate with which it accidentally made contact shattered into tiny ceramic shards, some of which, unfortunately, became embedded in that same fist.

He didn't notice them, didn't notice his hand bleeding, didn't notice Ron looking at him with no small degree of alarm, as he, too, leapt to his feet, determined to see the end of this, determined to save her. Ginny might be no damsel in a tower, but that didn't mean she didn't occasionally need rescuing from a hungry monster.

He just needed to figure out how. And fast, for he sensed that he was running out of time.

* * *

It was only a couple of days later, with his hand still healing, that it happened. Ron had dragged him to the Hospital Wing for Madam Pomfrey's analysis, and she had insisted that he return every few hours for her to check on his accidentally-self-inflicted wounds. This was a hassle, because the staff were still convinced that they could somehow prevent the inevitable, if they just escorted everyone everywhere. As his head of house, McGonagall was often volunteered, but Lockhart, the false professor, seemed to take great pleasure in tormenting Harry, himself. It was stretching Harry's patience to the very end of its tether.

And then it happened, and time seemed to slow down, eclipsed by the need to think and plan and act, and to do everything in exactly the right way, in exactly the right order, no mistakes allowed, for if he made just one, Ginny would surely die.

And yes, he rather suspected that it was Ginny even before they eavesdropped on the staff meeting, hoping to catch one of the professors alone.

How had they managed to sneak in? Well, that was where his injury seemed almost to have come in useful. By now, it was at least halfway healed, although it _hurt_ to even clench his hand into a fist, still. He could work through pain. He knew that.

Actually, he thought he remembered _Loki_ thinking something to that effect, last year, if that had been real. At the very least, that part of him that he'd given that name seemed to have thought it. Which meant that he, whether it was just a matter of belief or not, had it within him to keep going, no matter how it hurt. To cast a spell without his hand shaking and disturbing the aim or accuracy.

He'd gone to Madam Pomfrey for his usual checkup, and Ron had come with him, and McGonagall had escorted them. Ron never missed a chance to check on the petrified Hermione, always in silence, and Harry came over to sit with him, occasionally, and to ponder….

McGonagall had stood near the entrance of the Hospital Wing, on the watch for any prowling monsters. But then Professor Flitwick had appeared, face drawn and tired and sad, and Harry knew, just as Professor McGonagall, that something bad had happened. Another petrification, he'd thought at the time. And he hadn't seen Ginny since she'd sat with them the other day, two days ago, at the breakfast table, begging for their help.

He'd known that helping her would mean tracking her down. But she was nowhere to be found. He'd even asked Ron to use that spell he'd mentioned on the train before first year ("You remember that?"), but, for whatever reason, it hadn't worked, although he'd tried several times. Possibly, whatever was controlling her had a way of blocking it, or perhaps…no, he wouldn't think it. Ginny couldn't be _that_ close to death. Surely, she must have enough of a soul to be tracked….

To distract himself from these thoughts, he watched McGonagall leaving out of the corner of his eye, with a stern glare at them, that they should stay put until an escort could come to take them to their next class.

_Does she not realise that this latest attack has proven that their protective measures were useless? All the professors of Hogwarts could never follow, guard, keep track of the whereabouts of _ _ **every** _ _ student. This endeavour was doomed from the start. The illusion of security…._

He turned to Hermione, lying there, unmoved from when she had first arrived, months ago. Remembered something very important when he glanced at her hand, the one that had perhaps held the compact mirror.

Had it? He reached for Hermione's hand still clenched tight. It was closed into a fist; it couldn't be that she was still attempting to hold that compact mirror. She must have found something. Tilting his head at an angle, he could see a hint of yellowed paper sticking out. Had she torn out a page from a library book, in her haste? Whatever it was, he was sure that it was relevant. Still, how to get that page out? If Hermione was petrified, did that mean she'd turned to actual stone, and he risked breaking off her fingers if he didn't go about this quite right? Or was it more a short-hand term, a reference to the lack of give, the utter stillness, cessation of all movement and function?

Better to tear the paper, than to risk harm to Hermione's hand. She had a very tight grip. But patience, patience! He'd had much cause to learn just that skill at the Dursleys, and as was true of too much of their treatment, it would serve him well now.

He slowly pulled the paper, jostling Hermione's hand slightly as it slid free of her clenched fist. She hadn't expected to be petrified, at that moment.

He spread the paper flat on the mattress next to her, and read avidly. A "_basilisk"_? The king of _snakes_, Hagrid's dead roosters, which he'd thought little of before, the fleeing spiders, the voice that only he could hear, in the walls…. The _walls…._

He glanced at the word written in Hermione's own hand next to the entry. _Pipes_. That was why the voice seemed to be in the walls—the plumbing served as a sort of passageway, and the hidden secrets of the castle gave it hidden entries into the castle proper. The entrance to the Chamber, in the tap, the way in.

They had to at least _try_ to tell the professors, even if he sincerely doubted that they'd listen. What had it ever availed him, before? But he showed the paper to Ron, watched him read, watched him understand. Hermione had figured it out before them, for the most part, but she'd had no chance to show them what she'd figured out. Whom might they have saved, if Harry had just remembered earlier?

Ron came to much the same conclusion as Harry: that they must sneak out of the Hospital Wing, now their guard had gone, to the staff room. Harry was fairly sure he knew where it was, but they could always try to follow a staff member. That was perhaps best… suppose they decided to meet elsewhere?

And that was what they did, sneaking through the halls under the invisibility cloak, until they found the staff room (it had taken a few shortcuts to get there before McGonagall), and hid in the cupboard, where they could hear what was going on, and even sort of see….

There was a moment when Harry thought they'd surely be discovered, even as his stomach sank at the confirmation of what he'd already guessed (sort of). Ginny might not have been petrified, but what _had_ happened was even worse: she'd been "taken down into" the Chamber itself. _Her skeleton will lie in the Chamber forever_? That almost sounded a challenge.

He cast a silent _silencio_ on Ron to muffle the sound of him crying, both because he needed to hear more, and lest Ron give them away. They were hiding under the invisibility cloak, true, but….

And thus, they waited. Harry wasn't even sure what they were waiting for, now, only that it seemed too much of an effort to stand, just yet. Too much of an effort to _move_, just yet. Why had they thought this a good idea? Why had he thought this a good idea? But wait they did, for the staff room to clear out, to find a professor to listen to them.

Unfortunately, when the room cleared, only one professor lagged behind: Lockhart. And they were not expecting for their well-intentioned plan to assist to become a confrontation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to admit: I really liked the scene with Ginny trying to tell them what's going on over breakfast. I know it appears in canon, too, but....


	18. Liars

Time seemed to grind to a halt. At the very least, it had slowed, since he first heard confirmation of Ginny's current predicament. She couldn't be dead yet. Surely not. But he remembered how she had looked, two days ago, at the breakfast table, and feared, despite himself. Ron was crying in silence next to him in the cupboard, until he opened the cupboard door, seeing that only Lockhart remained, but hoping that even Lockhart was better assistance than _none at all_.

He was so very, very wrong. It was a good thing that adrenaline had kicked in, that time had slowed to a crawl to give him the space to think.

He gently lifted the cloak off himself, and emerged from the cupboard, approaching Professor Lockhart with sincere hesitance.

"Professor Lockhart? Might we have a word?" Harry asked, with the utmost politeness. It was galling to have to be polite to the fraud, but it would probably be worse when he had to stroke his ego just to get him to help. Which he saw coming, or thought he did. Until….

Lockhart started. "Ah, Harry Potter! How can I help you?" Lockhart smiled, but his smile was very thin, and quite obviously fake.

"We have something we need to tell you," Harry said. "We couldn't help hearing that Ginny had been taken into the Chamber of Secrets. We'll need your help in rescuing her."

Doubtless they needed a chaperone, and excuse for why they had left the Hospital Wing unattended, both of which covers Lockhart could provide. Harry still wished that it were someone other than Lockhart, but… if there were even half a grain of truth in his stories, then Lockhart might be useful for _something_. And if not…where had the stories come from? Were they all just fiction? Deep down, although Harry was loath to admit it, he was hoping that the adults would solve the problem, as they hadn't last year. And if all else failed…Lockhart was the most expendable adult.

"Ah, well, I was just heading back to my office. Perhaps we could speak there," said Lockhart. It was clear from his voice that he was paying little heed to Harry, and that what attention he _was_ being given was only an indulgence. He didn't think Harry knew anything at all.

And he hadn't noticed that Harry had said "we". Nor noticed whence Harry had come. Harry glanced back at the cupboard wherein Ron hid, and then said to Lockhart, "Sure. I suppose I don't want everyone to know that we escaped our chaperones to come wait for you in the staff room."

He glanced again at Ron's cupboard, thinking that it was just as well that Ron was still silenced, and under the invisibility cloak. Still, he'd like to be sure of where Ron was. But there was no help for it.

He followed Lockhart through the halls until he reached the familiar room in which he'd had his detention at the beginning of the year. Lockhart was far more narcissistic than Stark, unless Stark had plastered his living quarters with framed photographs of himself. It was appalling. Harry averted his eyes, looking at the floor. He held the door open a bit longer than he needed to get in, hanging on it as if unthinking, gathering his thoughts.

Lockhart was beginning to remove the photos from the walls, rolling them up, those that weren't framed, into scrolls, and stuffing them into a muggle suitcase.

"What are you doing, Professor?" he asked, with curiosity that was, at least initially, fake.

Lockhart jumped, as if he hadn't remembered that Harry were there. "I'm packing. I'm leaving," he said. "But let me know what you found out. I can pass the information on. And I'll see to it that you don't get in trouble for wandering the castle unsupervised."

That was suspiciously generous of him, and Harry's downcast eyes narrowed. Hmm.

"'Leaving'," he repeated, his mind catching up to itself. "But what of Ron's sister, Ginny?"

"An unfortunate tragedy," said Lockhart, rolling up another poster, sticking it into his suitcase, and then yanking the first portrait off the wall. If Harry had known who she was, he would have compared how the portrait seemed to shrink as it was stuffed into the suitcase to Mary Poppins. Unfortunately, he did not. He was almost impressed, instead. Almost, because his mind was too fixated upon far more important matters. _What of Ginny_? An "unfortunate tragedy"?

"But you're the Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor! All those things you wrote about in your books—"

Alright, he admitted to hoping that Lockhart had _some_ sort of technical knowledge, even if his actual experience were somewhat lacking, as displayed in the Dueling Club. That probably made him naïf. He should be thankful that he had any innocence left….

"Books can be misleading," Lockhart said, instead, as Harry finally let the door shut, by just letting go the handle.

Harry stared. That sentence, out of context, was innocuous. _In_ context, it sounded more of a confession, a roundabout way of saying that they were all made up.

"But you _wrote_ them!" he protested, flinging up his hands. "You must know _something_ about Defence against the Dark Arts, or why did Dumbledore choose you for this job?"

"A shortage of volunteers," said Lockhart, succinctly. "Oh, come now! They say this job is cursed, but I never expected to have a year half as dangerous as this one! I've had it! I'm gone!"

"Then…your books…there isn't _any_ truth to them? Those spells…they're just made-up words that don't do _anything_? You don't even have any _technical_ knowledge?"

Lockhart set aside the latest portrait he removed from the walls, and turned to Harry.

"Of course I didn't do any of those things, but it doesn't mean I didn't work hard! I traveled all over the world…made sure I got as thorough of an account of what happened from the people who fixed the problems I wrote about. None of them were very photogenic, you know—the woman who banished the banshee had a harelip, for God's sake! And I trained myself in a very special memory charm, to ensure that none of them remembered a thing—a special obliviate spell of my own invention. But I've no experience with fighting monsters. No, 'not even _technical_'!" He sneered at Harry, who stood in the doorway, still, hands clenched. Lockhart was a horrible liar. He should have asked flat out, if he had any experience, at any time this year. Then he'd have known not to waste his time, whether Lockhart said yes or no.

Lockhart blinked, several times, as if just realising how much he had just admitted. He pointed his wand at Harry. "But I can't have you spilling my secrets to the wizarding world. I'm very sorry, Harry Potter. I'll just have to remove all your memories of this conversation—it doesn't hurt, so don't worry—"

The wand that he was pointing at Harry suddenly left his hand, as Lockhart blinked, apparently stunned. Ron, silenced under the invisibility cloak, had given no hint of his presence. Harry swayed on his feet, unseated and shaking at the realisation that Lockhart had just tried to wipe his memory.

And how much of his memory would he have wiped? If he'd wiped only their memories of having the conversations with Lockhart, the heroes of his stories would have come forwards to accuse Lockhart of lying about his accomplishments, they'd have shown him up as a fraud.

Lockhart had tried to meddle with his mind. That thought rose to the fore, drowning out most of the others, filling him with a familiar cold wrath. There was a certain detachment from the situation, now, almost a detachment from himself, as if witnessing his own actions from the outside. He could count on the fingers of one hand how many times anyone had pushed him this far. But there was a bitter taste in his mouth, a flicker of alarm, remembering all the other instances where someone had meddled with his mind.

It never boded well. It never ended well. And Lockhart had no idea how narrowly he'd avoided making that same mistake, but that was no excuse, no absolution for him. Harry's fists clenched tighter, as he thought about it. He was almost certain it was Quirrell probing his mind in the Forbidden Forest that had awakened that corrupted corner. Even the smallest thing….

Lockhart looked suddenly feeble under Harry's glare, with the phoenix feather wand pointed at him so, so steadily.

"You shall help us, willing or no," Harry announced, the words a decree, a sentence, _judgement_. "You _shall_ help us to rescue Ginny. And then, perhaps, you will have something truthful to write in your fiction books."

Ron opened the door to Lockhart's quarters, and Harry gave the false professor a mocking bow. "After you, _professor_," he said, and shoved him through.

They led him through the otherwise-empty corridors at wand-point, passing no one on the way. It was a very good thing that Hogwarts used always the same protocols when something bad happened: retreat to your dorms. We shall tell you more later.

The school was empty. The school was theirs to wander. But Harry made his way through the normally filled corridors to Myrtle's bathroom, Ron opening the door and letting them pass. He removed the invisibility cloak only then, and Lockhart's eyes widened.

"Mr. Weasley?" he asked, as if _Ron_ were a ghost.

Ron gave no response, just glaring at him with an alarming amount of hatred, or anger. The tears still drying on his face in no way lessened the effect of Ron's death glare. Harry cast a _finite incantatem_ on him, in case that were the reason for his silence. Somehow, he doubted it.

"You would leave Ginny to die?" Ron demanded, his voice pitched at least an octave lower than usual.

"Er—well, I mean—"

Lockhart glanced back and forth between the two of them, looking for weakness, an exploitable gap in the ranks. Harry's arm and hand were steady, despite his aggravating his wounds by holding the wand in the fist that was still recovering from its recent abuse. Ron leveled the wand Malfoy had broken at the beginning of the year at Lockhart, trusting the man not to realise that this was the damaged wand that behaved erratically. Lockhart often missed these big details.

"You would have sent us away, when only Harry can access the Chamber of Secrets? You would sentence Ginny, _my sister_, a child under your protection, to death? All because you are too much of a coward to even risk your reputation. Do you prize her life that little, that you value your name over it?"

"Now, see here—" Lockhart began, but Ron was backing up to the familiar sink.

"It's alright, Myrtle! Don't be alarmed, but we're going to go into the Chamber of Secrets now. Don't worry, we'll…_avenge_ you," Harry called to the ghost girl, his voice full of feigned cheer, his attention, same as Ron's, on Ron's ongoing confrontation with Lockhart.

"Cowards perish first," said Ron, pushing Lockhart towards the secret entrance. "And thus, you may enter first, and see if you might not redeem yourself, in your last moments of life."

Wow. Harry had forgotten how scary angry-Ron was. But this time, he completely approved.

He walked over to the tap, to stand next to Lockhart, and imagined that there was a little green snake sitting there. And then he shrugged, remembering that day in the Dueling Club, when Malfoy had summoned a snake.

"_Serpensortia_," he tried, pointing his wand at the sink. He wasn't sure he quite understood how parseltongue worked. When he'd spoken at the Dueling Club, he'd thought he'd been speaking English. That suggested, if he tried to speak English to this snake, it would also be parseltongue. The logic made sense to him.

"What I'm about to say won't make much sense," he told the snake. "But it isn't meant for you. You can go do whatever you want, if you just wait until I've opened the way. Do you understand?"

The snake nodded. Okay. Harry stared at it, and it gave him a distinctly bored flick of the tongue.

_Hurry up_, it said. _I'm bored_.

As if he couldn't tell. There was a flicker of curiosity, of fascination, the desire to study this unique experience…but that was all deep beneath the surface, under the roiling anger directed towards Lockhart, and whomever had taken Ginny, and a gnawing guilt and fear at what had befallen her. Had he tried harder, might he have prevented this?

"Open," he told the snake, and reached out to catch it as the sink fell away. It slithered up his arm, radiating shock and panic.

"My apologies," he told it. "I did not expect that."

He gave it a few seconds for it to make its way down to the floor, and meanwhile, he turned to Lockhart.

"You heard what Ron said," he said, leveling a glare at the man. "Cowards first."

And he shoved Lockhart through the opening.

He screamed all the way down, but there seemed to be some sort of path—a pipe forming a sort of slide. Belatedly, he thought to cast _lumos_, to see how it illumined the way down. Pipe-slide. Sounded fun.

"Do you like slides?" he asked Ron, with feigned levity. He'd forgotten that Ron didn't fall for that.

"I shall go next," he said, perhaps in response, clapping a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Be careful."

And he swung his legs over the side of the pipe and slid down.

"Why are _you_ telling _me_ to be careful?" Harry asked, stepping forward to peer over the side, again.

"Ron!" he yelled. No response. His gut clenched. Please, let him not lose Hermione, _and_ Ron.

He swung his legs over, as Ron had, and fell into the pipe as well.

It was a slide. The feeling of weightlessness almost similar to riding a broomstick would probably have been a very enjoyable experience, under other circumstances. At the very least, it did not trigger the sense of panic of being unable to see the ground beneath him, which he had half-expected. He hadn't had much opportunity for play at the Dursleys, but there was a playground near Number Four, and he'd been a few times when he'd been younger, back when Dudley had still been interested. For whatever reason, he'd always favoured the swings, himself, perhaps because there was a rhythm to it, and once you got going, it became automatic, and you could just _think_. But he had some experience with slides, too, and this was very similar. Only…there was probably not sand at the end, to break your fall.

There wasn't. Instead, there was cold, hard stone, familiar from his last journey deep beneath the school, at the end of last year. He was starting to see some trends here. Defence Against the Dark Arts teachers were evil, and would eventually try to kill him (or worse). He'd end up in the many subterranean passages beneath the school, have his confrontation with the evil professor, and then…possibly die, and go crazy, and have to be dragged back to his senses by Ron.

That was unacceptable. Ginny's life was on the line. If he went crazy, he might end up harming her. But where _was_ she, anyway?

If he'd been smart, Lockhart would have waited to the side of the slide, and ambushed Ron on the way down, stealing the (broken) wand, with which he'd threatened Lockhart earlier. Instead, now Ron held him at wand-point, as he waited for Harry to catch up. Harry rolled his eyes, pointing his own holly-and-phoenix-feather wand at the untrustworthy professor.

"Don't try anything,"Harry warned him, as he rose to his feet, still a bit unsteady, with his aim just about the only steady thing about him. _Show no weakness_.

"Boys, boys," Lockhart began, but that was as far as he got before Ron's level stare silenced him. Yeah. Once you saw one of Ron's death glares, you were hesitant to press _any_ issue. Unless you were family, or Harry, or Malfoy.

…That list was longer than anticipated.

They continued on for a few minutes, walking in the light of Harry's _lumos_ spell. They paused by a giant white shape sitting discarded off to the side of the surprisingly smooth stone path (sure, there were animal skeletons here and there, but the floor itself was remarkably level). Harry, considering, intensified the light emitted by the wand rather than give Lockhart a bit of freedom. He realised that the shape was a giant snake skin; cast off, shed, it was nevertheless taller than he, the diameter wide enough then, that he could have lain down inside across it.

…Probably not the best thought to have at that time, but understandable, given that he had yet to see the creature that had shed it. Most likely the basilisk. They should probably shut their eyes and move forwards by feel alone, but….

"At the first sign of movement, shut your eyes," he hissed to both of them. If Lockhart were petrified, he'd cease to be of use even as cannon fodder, and he'd have leverage on them, besides. No, Harry meant to either find an excuse to kill Lockhart, or use his own spell against him, at the end of all of this.

He did get his opportunity.

Lockhart was more competent than he'd made himself out to be. That split second of distraction, when Harry gave that instruction, was all he needed to tackle Ron and (although this seemed incredible to Harry in later years) wrest the wand from Ron's hand. Perhaps it was because he knew that the wand was defective and liable to backfire that Ron ceded it so easily. Perhaps desperation gave Lockhart unusual strength, coupled with the unexpected nature of the assault. These things are never that easy to piece together after the fact. Regardless, wrest it away he did, and then pointed the wand directly at Ron.

"Not so fun being on the other end of it, is it?" he demanded. "I know a lot more spells than either of you do, too. No one is down here but the three of us, to know which ones I use. My modified memory charm…or an Unforgivable. So don't move, Harry Potter. _Expelliarmus_."

He began to back away, but managed to catch Harry's wand as it sailed over to him. Apparently, he was a psychopath, after all. Maybe _he_ had opened the Chamber of Secrets….?

But there was no time to think about that. With Ron under immediate threat, Harry had to think very hard, and do nothing until he had everything mapped out just so. He could afford no mistakes. Not now, with Ron's life on the line as well as Ginny's. Lockhart would not move, would not sacrifice the hold he had over Harry, unless Harry forced his hand. That gave Harry the space to think, and he thought fast, on his feet, which was what he did best.

What _Loki_ did best.

Well, first things first: what was Lockhart doing? Trying to get away, trying to get around them. Trying to leave, or…trying to get behind Harry.

That was more likely, and that couldn't be allowed. "I think I'll take a bit of this skin back to the castle. I'll tell them that at the sight of Ginny dead the two of you _tragically_ lost your minds."

Wand still trained on Ron. It could not be relied upon to malfunction. And if it did, Lockhart could always use Harry's. Harry had to act, and act fast. If he didn't, Lockhart would erase both of their memories. There was just one advantage he had over Lockhart's superior repertoire and position: he didn't need a wand to use magic. And Lockhart didn't know that.

His gaze met Ron's, silently asking for…well, probably for permission. For forgiveness, perhaps, too. They'd spared Lockhart once, and where had it gotten them? They should have wiped his memories themselves rather than bring him down here, or once they knew it was safe down here, with no immediate threats lurking.

Harry realised that his wand arm was still pointed at where Lockhart had been. A useless gesture, now, but the man had said not to move.

Ron seemed to get the message. He turned his head away, and nodded, a gesture so slight that Harry caught it only because he was looking for it.

Harry was fast, knew he was fast—the youngest Seeker in a century, those years of evading Dudley. He whipped his right hand around to point at Lockhart, and cried, "_reducto_!"

The name of the spell was needed, or _felt_ necessary, at least, when you had no conductor, no focus to lend the spell power. He aimed for Lockhart's chest, because that general area had a lot of vital organs that could be destroyed or disconnected.

Lockhart fell back, dead, and with a gaping hole in his side. Harry was surprised at how little effect the sight had on him as he calmly walked over to Lockhart's still warm body, prising open the fist clenched tight over Harry's own wand, and then casting _expelliarmus_ to get Lockhart to give up Ron's broken one. It was sparking, which couldn't be a good sign. Wand lore held that some wands were fickle, and could be persuaded to switch masters. Just how did a break in the wand affect that, and how did such shifts of allegiance affect the breakage of a wand? He sighed, and, with some misgivings, handed the bloody wand over to Ron. Ron was several feet away from Lockhart, but there was still blood on him, so there was probably blood on Harry's clothes, and in his hair. He frowned, and then shrugged it off.

"We should have killed him earlier," Harry said conversationally, "before he could sabotage us."

Ron made to respond, but just then, his wand shot a jet of light at the ceiling, and rocks tumbled down. Ron shoved Harry aside, out of the way of a particularly nasty one, and then they were on opposite sides of a rockfall. Harry couldn't see Ron. Panic set in.

"Ron!" he screamed, again. He was not half so blasé, now.

"Are you injured?" asked Ron's voice, from the other side of the rock wall.

"No. You saved me. Are you alright, Ron?" Harry asked. He clenched the holly-and-phoenix-feather wand tighter.

"Nothing hit me. I'm fine. But…I see no gap in this wall. It bars my way forward, and your way back. I am afraid that you must continue alone, Harry. Forgive me. If I had only listened to you, and used Malfoy's—"

Harry waved a hand in dismissal, even though Ron couldn't see it. "Forget it. It's just as well. If you had been using an actual wand, I wouldn't have dared to use that curse on Lockhart. And then he would have obliviated us both, and Ginny would have no hope. And speaking of Ginny, I should continue on. But…you do understand _why_ I did what I did, right?"

A pause. Harry's heart seemed to forget to beat in those few seconds, as if it, too, were holding its breath, straining to hear Ron's answer. Why did it matter so much?

"Yes. I understand. You did nothing wrong, Harry. But please, I beg of you, _hurry_. But be careful, too."

Harry rolled his shoulders, and shrugged.

"I shall attempt to clear a way back for you, on your return. Good luck, Harry."

"Thanks, Ron! You're the best!" he said, in a voice full of an almost-sincere levity. He had to admit that he was relieved that Ron didn't seem to think he was a monster, even though he'd just killed someone.

But if he hadn't…Ginny would have died.

Ginny….

He pressed forwards with greater speed than previously (no longer slowed by the need to guard Lockhart), until he came to a huge set of double doors, decorated with serpents intertwined, staring at him with emerald green eyes, they judged him from their positions on the door. On either side, torches burnt, but the colour seemed somehow…off, and they burnt when there could not be any fuel left for them to burn. They generated no heat.

The flickering nature of torchlight made the snakes seem to twist and writhe. He needed no imaginary snake, nor summoned one, to approach the door and hiss, "_Open_".

The eyes of the snakes glowed, and the doors slid apart, silently, silently. Harry passed through, and beyond, into the fabled Chamber of Secrets.

Here, the subterranean tunnels of the castle broadened into a natural cavern, and Slytherin had left it thus, for the most part unhewn, unfinished, uneven. He'd flattened the floor, but left the walls roughhewn and bumpy, save for a statue of himself. Backed up against the walls, it stood larger than life, rising into the ceiling above, the mouth as tall as a man, pursed in a sneer. The eyes narrowed, with a simian face, and a goatee. There at the feet, between his shoes, was a figure, catching his eyes because of her bright red hair.

He forgot about his fatigue, running over to her, where she lay utterly still. He knelt down beside her, turning her over carefully, holding his breath as he strained to hear hers. She was so cold.

Cold as ice. How often had he thought that? It seemed as if the universe were mocking him….

_Don't die, Ginny. Please, don't be dead._

"She won't wake," said a voice, one he couldn't place, although he knew it sounded familiar. His head whipped around to pinpoint the source, and he saw a figure leaning against one of the columns supporting the chamber. It was a boy of about sixteen, with short, neat black hair, and piercing blue eyes. His stance was casual, but somehow guarded, the stance of a sentry on lookout, except for that feigned air of unconcern, the way his hands were clenched around his upper arms. The way he seemed to be trying not to show that he was examining Harry, even as Harry was evaluating him. Trying to place him. It clicked. _Tom Riddle_.

But there was an odd, misty bright whiteness, like fog, billowing around the boy's form, as motes will in shafts of sunlight.

"What do you mean, 'she won't wake'?" Harry snapped, guard instantly up again. "What have you done to her?"

"James Ericson, I presume?" asked Riddle, uncrossing his arms, and pushing off from the pillar against which he'd been resting his foot. There was a mocking tilt to his head as he continued to study Harry even as he approached. "As for what I mean by her not waking…never fear: she is still alive, but only just. And I haven't done anything to her. How could I, insubstantial as I am?"

He did look a lot like a ghost…. But only one person had died when the Chamber had been opened the last time: Myrtle. Riddle professed to have caught the Heir, but he _must_ be the Heir, himself, to be here now.

Unless he'd died later? Harry found himself wavering, unsure now.

"Are you a ghost, then?" he asked, glancing back down at Ginny. If Tom were a ghost, then, one way or the other, he couldn't harm Harry. Only Peeves had that ability, and he was a special kind of ghost (not even a ghost).

"No," said Riddle, frowning. "I am something more special than that: a memory of myself at sixteen, preserved in a diary for fifty years."

"Then how do I know that you pose no threat?" asked Harry, watching out of the corner of his eyes.

"I never said that I posed no threat," said Riddle, with a smile. There was no warmth to that expression, no sincerity. Harry felt as if he'd been left out of a joke, or perhaps Riddle saw a joke that he didn't feel like sharing.

"What did you do to Ginny?" he asked again, straightening his back, and raising himself into a crouch from where he had knelt. He turned to face Riddle, to better gauge his expressions, to show that he was openly wary of the boy.

Riddle's smile widened. "Me? I did nothing. I suppose you could say that the reason that Ginny Weasley is the way she is now is that she opened her heart, and poured out all her secrets to an invisible stranger."

Again, Ron's voice, urging a warning: _'Never trust anything if you can't see where it keeps its brain'_.

"Ginny confided in her diary for _everything_. About having to wear castoffs, and how her brothers teased her, how she worried how she'd do at school, how she'd live up to expectations, and—" Riddle's eyes seemed to glow, as he smirked, "—how she didn't think good, brave, _noble_ Harry Potter would _ever_ like her."

Something in that smirk told Harry that he had been caught out, that Tom had known even before Harry's arrival. But how?

He glanced down again, at Ginny's prone form. He gently leant her back against the statue's foot, resting her upright, as if she were a doll, a toy, instead of a human being. And meanwhile, he listened, as Tom continued.

"Well, it is very _boring_, having to listen to the trivial complaints and woes of a little girl. But I wrote back anyway. I was patient. I was kind. Ginny simply _loved_ me. 'Dear Tom, It's so wonderful having this diary to confide in. It's like having a friend I can carry around in my pocket'." He laughed, and it was an eerily familiar sound, high-pitched and sharp. Harry knew he could place it, given time, but for now, he continued to listen with growing horror—and anger—to Tom's tale.

"Well, I have always been able to charm those I needed to. And Ginny continued to pour out her soul to me, and her soul was exactly what I needed. I grew ever stronger, feeding on a diet of her deepest fears, her darkest secrets. Soon enough, I was strong enough to return the favour. Strong enough to pour a little of _my_ soul back into her. Reveal a few secrets of my own."

Harry gasped, figuring it out. And was Ginny's soul still pouring out, then? Was that why Riddle's form continued to gain substance, to look more and more _human_, and less and less _ghost_? And pouring his soul into her…possession. That had been _Riddle_ the other day at breakfast.

The very real pain of his still-injured hand was nothing next to Harry's mounting rage. He clenched his fists tight, barely aware that they were digging into the still-weakened skin. He felt no pain. His gaze locked on Tom's smirk, and he rose to his feet.

"You dared—" he began, dimly aware that there was a distinctly _non-Harry-Potter_ quality to his voice, to his inflection, to his diction.

Tom Riddle didn't notice. He cut Harry off.

_And he has yet to lie…but that cannot be. His earlier statement about not being able to harm Ginny is contradicted by his more recent statements of being the cause of her current state. Then…here is _ _ **another** _ _ able to lie to me._

"Yes, I see that you understand. It was Ginny Weasley who killed Hagrid's roosters. Ginny Weasley who daubed threatening messages on the walls. Ginny Weasley who set the basilisk on three mudbloods, and a squib's cat. But that doesn't matter. For some time now, I've been after someone else. You."


	19. Psychopaths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clearly, I like to drop in references to the book title in chapter titles...when I can get away with it, and the book title isn't too stupid.

Harry couldn't react for a moment. His mind was processing all of this new information, readying himself for the inevitable confrontation. And now, dimly, he felt it, the burning in his arms and legs. Perhaps it had started a while ago, and he hadn't noticed, through his mounting rage. It was not yet bright enough to be seen through the folds of his robe, only in his hands. Mother considered Riddle a threat too, then. Or she was reacting to Harry's apprehension, his resignation, his comprehension.

It was only a matter of time before Riddle noticed, but meanwhile, he kept talking, kept walking, kept solidifying.

"You are _wrong_," Harry declared, tilting his head to look down at Riddle. Riddle stopped, as if a bit thrown by this reaction. He waved his hand, a gesture inviting Harry to continue. _Just __**what**__ am I wrong about, Harry Potter_?

"It was not _Ginny_ who petrified those students, or Mrs. Norris. No more was it _Ginny_ who killed Hagrid's roosters, or wrote on the wall. It was _you_, no matter that you acted via a vessel. For she was not in control of her own body when you allege that she committed those crimes, was she?"

Riddle started walking again. "And who will know any different, if the attacks cease with her death? Academic. A splitting of hairs—"

"A very important distinction," Harry cut across him, again. "Ginny has no culpability in these crimes. Her only mistake was that she trusted too easily. I will not have her slandered, particularly not by the true villain of this tale. But tell me, Tom Riddle, why you wished to speak with me, particularly."

He was gaining control of the conversation, and clearly Riddle knew it; his eyes narrowed, and he glared, but seemed to take pains to seem less affected than he was. Psychopaths were all the same, Harry mused. They needed to always have control over _everything_. They did not do well with wild cards, unexpected outcomes, with _chance_. Now, Riddle had the choice of redirecting the conversation, away from his own desired topic, or of seeming to obey Harry's order.

That topic must be _very_ important. "Ginny Weasley told me all about you, Harry Potter. Your whole, _fascinating_ history. Tell me, how is it that you survived the Killing Curse, cast by Lord Voldemort, when you were only a baby. Tell me how you defeated Lord Voldemort. The longer you talk, the longer you stay aliv_e."_

He had turned it back around, issued his own command. But Harry, unlike Tom, was not beholden to the idea of always being in control. He was used to letting others dictate the flow of conversation, occasionally interjecting his piece (unless he were at the Dursleys). Harry sought to retain control of his own mind, his own actions, and not to dictate those of others. (Not anymore?) And all he needed, right now, was time enough for Mother's armour to solidify around him. But he couldn't cut things too close. Ginny would not last forever. Better to start the battle before the armour was fully formed than to wait too long, and lose her forever. Still, one thing would not come clear….

"What concern is it for you, how it is that I survived when I might have died? Is it an escape of that Curse for which you seek? What interest is there for you, for, of all things, events long after your time?"

Riddle laughed again, and that laugh was too familiar. Almost, Harry could put a context to it, was starting to piece together the answer to his own question, even as Riddle spoke.

"Ah, yes, yes. You are as clever as Ginny Weasley described you. But you don't know that _Lord Voldemort is my past, present, and future_, Harry Potter."

He raised his index finger, and began to trace letters in the air, that shimmered gold, glowing in the torchlit room. _Tom Marvolo Riddle_. The letters hung suspended in the air for a minute. Then he tapped the letter"v", and the letters rearranged themselves. Harry stared. That was where he'd heard the laugh before: in his dreams of green light, and _badness_. He hadn't had cause to think of them in quite some time.

"You see?" asked Tom in a whisper. "It was a name I was already using in my school days—only amongst my closest friends, of course. Did you think I would keep the name of my filthy muggle father forever, I in whose veins runs the blood of Salazar Slytherin himself? No, I had to fashion a new name, a name that wizards everywhere would _fear_ to speak, when I became the greatest wizard alive!"

A strange calm settled over Harry. So. This was the teenage Lord Voldemort, was it? "Tom Riddle" was Voldemort's true name, the name he had sought from Dumbledore only last year? Well, _Riddle_ shouldn't have told him that. Now, Harry had the edge, he knew. For Riddle knew of Harry only secondhand, from Ginny, who rather idolised, but little understood, him. But Harry had fought Lord Voldemort himself, last year. He'd watched him, spoken with him, knew how he fought, knew how he thought, knew what made him tick.

It was a mistake, admitting his identity to Harry Potter. Almost as great was the confirmation, after a few seconds, that Riddle had _no_ knowledge of what had happened last year, when he asked, just as Voldemort had,

"What is that? That glow about your hands? What sort of magic are you using?"

Harry smiled. That threw Riddle off—he even stumbled, although, incorporeal as he was, there were no obstacles to his advance, no stone could trip him, for he made no contact with the floor.

"You are _not_ the greatest wizard alive," he said, in a would-be pleasant voice. "_That_ is Dumbledore. Everyone knows it. You, on the other hand, are a broken, formless wraith. And you have no nose. Defeated by a baby of only fifteen months.

"You ask me what magic this is about me. You ask how I survived, that night. Well, the answer to both happens to be the same: my Mother's love. My mother died to save me. And the protection of her sacrifice lives on in my very blood."

"I see…yes, a blood sacrifice, powerful magic, love a powerful countercurse. That makes sense. To think, I thought there might be something special about _you_ in particular."

And although Riddle had interrupted what Harry had been about to say, he cocked his head, inquisitive, seeking for the answer, as the silver fire of his mother's love flowed over his arms, down his legs, and spread upwards, forming the familiar battle armour he'd seen in so many dreams, had _worn_ in so many dreams. Loki seemed to have a knack for figuring out what made people tick, and he'd done the work for Harry, here.

Just a few more minutes.

"Oh? And why is that?" said Harry, as if indifferent to Riddle's opinion of him, standing with the armour continuing to circulate through his blood, still shimmering silver. He knew it took a few minutes to form.

He began to form the familiar buckler as he waited. He might not be able to create a weapon, but he would at least have a second form of defence.

"Are you an idiot after all, Potter? Look at us! Both orphans, both prodigiously gifted in magic, doubtless the first two parselmouths to attend Hogwarts since the great Salazar Slytherin himself…why, we even _look_ somewhat similar."

He cocked his head in a disdainful way that let Harry know he had noticed Harry's hair. Good thing Harry didn't consult with villains as to his choices in fashion.

But…somewhere beneath the stillness of his focused mind, Tom Riddle's words caused him to wince, to remember how he himself had compared the two of them, when he had been observing Tom's memory in the pensieve.

Of course, as it was _this boy_ who had orphaned Harry, had created that commonality, perhaps his words held less weight than they otherwise would have. He wondered what had become of Riddle's parents. There had been a Dark Lord fifty years ago, by the name of Grindelwald. Dumbledore's Chocolate Frog card claimed that Dumbledore had defeated the Dark Lord Grindelwald in a duel…but that was long after Riddle was born, judging by the date on the diary. Was there such a commonality here? His intuition said that that was not the case.

"But now I know that it was only luck that saved you from me, after all. As for Dumbledore: you say that he is such a great wizard, but where is he now? He's been driven from Hogwarts by the mere _memory_ of me!" Riddle gave a predatory grin at his last quasi-pun. Harry glared right back at him, a glare that somehow bypassed his utter poise, filled with the roiling rage just beneath the surface. Dumbledore's parting words echoed in his head: _Help will always be given at Hogwarts, for those who need it_. Was he not acting as Dumbledore's agent even now?

_You will find that I have left this school only when none remain who are loyal to me._

"Gone? He is far from gone, Riddle. His legacy lives on in us who remain. We champion his cause, and his dream persists, his dream of a protected, safe Hogwarts. And whatever kept your present-day self from these hallowed grounds thwarts you still. He is not as gone as you might think."

A strange, haunting melody filled the air, seeming to have no origin. Harry could hear it, with his overly keen hearing, but Riddle missed it entirely.

"You think that I value my life most highly, as you prize yours. But you are mistaken. I am no stranger to Death, and I do not fear it, as you do," Harry said, giving Riddle a wide smile.

Riddle's eyes narrowed. "I fear _nothing_. I am Lord Voldemort, the greatest wizard of our age! You have told me what I desired to know. If you are Death's companion, then I will gladly reunite you."

He turned to the statue, at the feet of which Ginny lay, and Harry could feel the tension in the air. The magic of the Chamber of Secrets, he could tell, was twisted and warped. He could feel that wrongness permeating the air, now, even with his seventh sense mostly closed. He thought, briefly, of Mother's warning about the hidden underbelly of the palace, how venturing there would overwhelm him, how using it would twist him into something evil and vile as it was. Had the Chamber made Tom Riddle what he was, or was it the other way around? Or had their mutual evils fed off one another?

Time to contemplate that later. For now, he watched, at first nonplussed, and then settling into a ready stance, as Riddle called, "_Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four_."

Harry closed his eyes, focusing on the nature of the magic woven into the words, analysing it, mentally cataloguing what he learnt about it as he listened. He knew that Riddle must be speaking _parseltongue_, but, as usual, it sounded like English to him. However, if he could just unravel the mystery of how it worked…perhaps he could learn how to speak it willingly. After all, there was no snake here to guide Riddle's speech. He must be able to speak the language at will. Harry, on the other hand, needed an actual snake (except where the doors outside had allowed him to trick his mind into believing that there was an actual snake, of course).

He opened his eyes just as the great jaw of Slytherin dropped open, and something moved out of the depths into the dim torchlight. The basilisk. Frowning, Harry closed his eyes once more, hoping that Riddle was truly as harmless as he seemed. For the moment.

He could not risk keeping his eyes open, when "the beam of its eye" could kill. Shared eye-contact, that meant. And indirect eye-contact meant petrification. That, too, could not be risked, or he would have done as Perseus had, and used his shield as a guide.

His eyes opened, a reflex, when something dropped down over his head. It blocked his sight, too.

_Ah. We meet again, Harry Potter_, said a voice. Harry paused in forming the buckler. _This_ was unexpected.

_…Are you the __**Sorting Hat**_? he asked.

"See what Dumbledore sends to assist his loyal defender. Is that…Dumbledore's pet bird…and the old school Sorting Hat?"

Riddle couldn't believe it, either. But he didn't seem able to hear Fawkes's haunting song. It must have been Fawkes who had dropped the Hat onto his head…and he must have had a reason….

_You do seem to be in a bit of a fix, don't you? A twelve-year-old fighting a basilisk…even Gryffindor would never have stood for that. But you are not just any twelve-year-old, are you, Your Grace?_

And there went the hope that the Hat had forgotten that. At least with the Hat covering his eyes, he dared to keep them open. He resumed working on his shield.

_And it seems as though you've even made some effort to follow my advice—not all the advice I give is heeded, you know. But there's only _ _so_ _ much an old Hat _ _like_ _ me can do…._

Harry sighed, feeling rather than seeing that the armour had finished solidifying. He opened his seventh sense as wide as he could, trying to pinpoint the location of a magical monster by its magic alone.

_How may I assist you, my lord? You are _ _currently_ _ the protector of this school—its champion, I might say. Tell me what you most need, and I will assist you._

Harry considered. He wondered why he wasn't feeling any of the Basilisk's emotions, or hearing its voice, as he had before. He wondered where the monster was.

_Will you be my eyes for me? Is that within your ability? And…you can read minds, correct? Is it possible to block emotions and thoughts—?_

_I started working on _ _ **that** _ _ the moment I touched your head. Not much good going into a battle when you feel every blow you strike as if it hit you, now is it? But you should learn occlumency. Duck!_

Harry thought he probably looked quite foolish, as if he had a pointy hat for a head, but it didn't matter, because he could feel how narrowly the blow of the basilisk's tail had missed him.

"_Kill him! Kill him!_" Riddle was crying, sounding rather deranged. He was, of course, speaking parseltongue. The understanding of how the language was made was laid bare before Harry, as the threads of a multicoloured cloth, he could see warp and weft. He understood.

_Is that your understanding of magic, my lord?_ asked the Hat, sounding impressed. _Even the Founders could not see Magic as __clearly__…._

He could replicate it, he _knew_….

_I feel privileged _ _merely_ _ to have witnessed this. Very well, Your Grace, what else do you require of me?_

_What is occlumency?_ he couldn't help asking, but then he shook his head. More pressing concerns. He dodged to the side as the Hat called another warning, and he began to synchronise the Hat's warnings and observations with his seventh sense's indications of the basilisk's location. Little to work with, but some.

_I need a __**weapon**_, he said. _There are few spells that could harm such a creature as I have read about…._

The Hat _hmm_ed in reply. _Ah! Good bird, Fawkes, smart, too, but you already read that when you researched phoenixes after your meeting with Dumbledore. You know that they are clever, and loyal…. But if you could see what Fawkes is doing—_

The basilisk was hissing in pain. Harry recognised some of the words, but most were indistinct gibberish. The reptilian equivalents of "ouch", perhaps. What _was_ Fawkes doing?

_You can look at the battlefield now, my lord_, said the Hat, cheerfully. _Fawkes has…rendered the basilisk's eyes useless to it._

Harry considered saying something about how he, in fact, couldn't—not unless he wanted to give up the Hat's defence on his _mind_. But thinking was as good as speaking, for a mind-reading Hat. The Hat ignored his musings to continue, as Harry now warily approached the writhing basilisk, and Riddle cried, _"You can still smell him—kill him!_" which was quite insensitive to the incredible pain the basilisk must be feeling….

Harry lifted up the brim of the Hat to see the basilisk turn to face him across the room. It was huge, and white, and its two yellow eyes were oozing dark blood. Huh.

_As for a weapon,_ the Hat continued, _as you are the guardian-protector of the school, I suppose I can entrust you with this… you are, after all, fighting __**Slytherin's**__ monster. I think Gryffindor would approve of my choice. But understand that I am giving this weapon to __**you**__. I do not want it to fall into hands I have not chosen, for it to be used by the unworthy._

_Then, just between Thor and me, if I ever find him_, Harry said, with a smile, as Riddle continued to screech, and the basilisk approached. He was grateful for the Hat's defence on his mind. He couldn't imagine the agony the basilisk must be experiencing right now.

_Very well, Your Grace. I know you know how to use this—and you no longer need me to cover your eyes. Good luck._

The Hat seemed to constrict around his head, and something heavy landed on it, making him see stars. It was then that he realised the obvious: he would have to remove the Hat in order to retrieve whatever weapon it had just given him. "Good luck", indeed.

He took a deep breath, bent down to set his buckler on the floor, and whipped the Hat off his head, with one hand, catching the sword by cutting himself along the blade with his already injured hand as he did. He blamed the surprise, and the sudden crushing pain of the thrashing basilisk, for this.

A glance into the air high above revealed what at first looked to be a floating fire, before Harry discerned flapping wings, and realised that it was Fawkes, recovered from burning day, and _glorious_. He stared.

The pain would level out, he knew. He could work through it, as _Loki_ could work through it. He'd just have to borrow some of that strength…that could make things a bit interesting…. The Hat was right: with the basilisk's main weapon gone, he needed no further assistance from the Hat, save for what he held in his dripping hand.

He grabbed hold of the leathern hilt with his left hand, the weaker of his two hands, dropping the Hat to the ground with a silent apology. He sucked on the injured webbing for a second, and then switched the sword into his right hand, and picked up the buckler in his left.

He ignored the pain, the rage, the fear of the King of Serpents. He stood, again, feeling stronger than he had whilst he had been wearing the Hat. He didn't know why, perhaps it was that he could see, perhaps it was that borrowed strength, but he felt suddenly full of confidence. He versus the basilisk. That was not the worst odds he had ever faced. Fawkes trilled a triumphant little tune, high above; perhaps that was it. But he knew that there was no need to invoke that part of him that he called "Loki", regardless of whether or not it actually _was_ a god. He could do this on his own, he knew. Of course…he'd known that _before_….

He smiled, and, rather than rushing the enemy, took a moment to survey the current odds. Riddle, glowering, eyes narrowed, arms crossed, stood off to the side, watching. The basilisk writhed in pain on the floor.

"So, you fight a legendary monster with a muggle weapon, like a mudblood. This is why mudbloods shouldn't be _allowed_ in Hogwarts. They disgrace wizarding customs with their filthy _muggle_ ideas, and—"

He gave Riddle a cold smile. "Oh. You believe this to be a _muggle_ weapon? You betray your own ignorance, Riddle."

He turned back to the basilisk. What he was about to try probably wouldn't work, but…hey! At least he could say he'd tried the blatantly obvious.

"_Don't kill me_," he told the snake, now that he could see again. The snake stiffened, perceiving the new voice, and then renewed its thrashing.

_Pain_, it hissed. _Hurts. Hungry. You do not bear Master's blood. You are an intruder in his secret place. You must die. The boy is right. And yet_… it stilled again, momentarily. _There is something different about you. Something about your scent that I do not recognise…_.

Riddle took a step towards Harry, and then seemed to think better of it.

"How _dare_ you? The basilisk is the embodiment of the greatness of Slytherin House. How dare you, a _gryffindor_, attempt to control it?"

Harry's smile broadened.

"Do you question my worth, little wizard?" he said, the words strange on his tongue, despite having spoken them before. But he knew the effect they would have on Riddle, the way he would pause, re-evaluate the situation, with both the basilisk and Harry suggesting that Harry was not quite what he appeared.

"You speak as if you aren't a wizard, yourself."

"Perhaps I am not," Harry said, with a smirk. The basilisk moaned, pain made his eyes water as he marched towards the King of Snakes. But they were all three of them more aware than was usual of each other's whereabouts. The basilisk reacted to his proximity by swinging the end of its tail at him, trying to bat him away. He dodged to the side, and kept going. The shield was seeing little use, thus far.

The next time the tail aimed towards him, he swung the sword at it, cutting clean through the tip, and sank to his knees, briefly, as he tried to adjust again. He needed to be more careful.

But now, the basilisk was reluctant to use one of its few remaining weapons. Still, its great girth was a weapon of its own. As it tried to draw its body into tight coils around him, he thought of a bubble, a wall of protective ice. It surrounded him, preventing the snake from breaking through, but draining his energy, and stalling his progress. He frowned. Riddle laughed.

Fawkes had removed the threat of its eyes, Harry himself had cut off the tail, and its immense girth had not availed it. That left only one weapon, the weapon that all snakes possessed. It launched itself at Harry's wall of ice, its head bursting through with astonishing speed, shattering the ice like glass.

As the great head lunged for him, Harry drove the sword up to the hilt through the roof of its mouth, into its brain…if a magical snake had one of those. It must, because it screamed, and thrashed, and bucked.

At first, he thought the immense pain in his arm was due to the shared emotion connecting him to the snake. Then he realised that it was in the wrong place, and then he caught sight of the fang sunk deep into his left forearm, having burnt a hole through the armour, filling his veins with deadly poison even as the snake itself fell over, dead, wrenching the fang from its mooring.

Harry's legs gave out under him. The world began to fade out.

_So_ _ it is to be a mutual kill, then. Victorious in my defeat…but perhaps Ginny shall live…._

Fawkes dove down, or he saw a flash of bright-red-and-orange approaching at great speed…maybe it was Mother's hair. Mother had red hair.

"Here lies Harry Potter," came Riddle's mocking voice, although Harry could no longer see its owner. Everything was beginning to seem very far away. Riddle had regained his poise with Harry's mortal wound. "Defeated by the Dark Lord he so unwisely challenged. You're _dying_, Harry Potter. Dying. Even Dumbledore's bird knows it…."

Fawkes landed before him. He could feel the heat breathing off the phoenix's body. He reached out to touch it, wondering what it would feel like. Soft as feathers, scorching as flames?

"Thank you, Fawkes. Please…find a way to stop Riddle…and…save Ginny…."

His hand was so, so heavy. He let it fall. He closed his eyes; he couldn't see anyway—what was the point of keeping them open…?

The world faded out.

The next thing he knew, he was lying on the floor, and Riddle was much nearer. A curse sprang from his hand and hit the phoenix. Riddle's glare was every bit as venomous as the poisonous snake Harry had just slain. He realised that the pain had gone, that he could see and hear.

How?

"Bloody phoenix," Riddle snarled. "How could I have forgotten that their tears—"

Ah. The incredible healing properties of phoenix tears. Still. Harry remembered how it had been, when Loki had fallen from the Rainbow Bridge. How he'd landed too hard on a foreign planet. The impact had been too much even for his body, perhaps especially after so much time without food or water, or sleep…. The world had faded out, and then, the next thing he knew, he was in a different, darker, enclosed space, with a giant looming over him. Thanos.

He'd just _died_ again. But Fawkes, the bird of immortality and resurrection, had _resurrected_ him. Had brought him back from death. He suspected that the bird could only do that in very specific circumstances—it was mostly an extension of his healing powers. It had banished the poison that had killed him, healed his wounds, dragged his fleeing soul back into his body.

As Thanos had, for less benevolent reasons.

"Fawkes…" he said, but couldn't continue. What was there to say? "Thank you."

Was this a third chance, or did it still count as a second one?

No matter. He raised himself to his feet, aided by using the sword as a crutch. He must have wrenched it out of the snake's mouth as he'd died….

"Well, I prefer it thus, anyway…just you and me, Harry Potter. You and me. A rematch of even odds. Yes…."

Riddle was either talking to himself, or to Harry. Really, it didn't matter which. They seemed to be interchangeable concepts with this one. More important was the sentiment of those words. He'd just _died_. Didn't he get a break?


	20. Something in Common

For Harry, still full of adrenaline after the recent battle, time seemed to slow again, after it had _just_ regained its normal pace. Another battle, hot on the heels of the first.

But did it have to be a battle? His seventh sense was still wide open, owing to a need to keep tabs on the basilisk, and on Tom Riddle. Particularly now that he knew that Riddle _could_ attack using magic. Was it that he could have before, and chose not to, to trick Harry? Or could he only now, after draining so much of Ginny's soul? But speaking of that…what bound Riddle into _this_ world, the physical world, freed him from the confines of the diary into which he was bound, was _Ginny's soul_, which he was busy stealing. If Harry could just somehow block that, destroy the bond….

A beam of darkness connected Riddle's solidifying body with the diary lying at Ginny's feet—Harry could see it. But it was too thick to break by any standard means. He sent a wave of ice through it, but the ice was of the physical plane, and, to all sight, passed right through.

Riddle's lack of response to that assault, except for a puzzled furrowing of the brows, suggested he was not aware of the stream of darkness, himself, although it was sustaining him. Otherwise, he would have worked to protect it.

Harry's head jerked to the diary, and Riddle followed his line of sight, frowning, and began to stalk towards Harry, throwing out curses as he went.

Well, if he was solid enough to curse Harry, perhaps….

The torture curse hit the buckler with the weight of a punch. It reminded him of last year, the mistakes he'd made, learnt from. The pain….

But, miraculously, that pain, the pain that warned him of Voldemort's presence, wasn't present now. Why not?

He shook his head, keeping his gaze fixed on Riddle, as he began to back towards the diary, still with the buckler up to absorb his blows. He raised the sword he'd taken from the Sorting Hat, and focused energy through it as he might a wand.

"_Stupefy_!" he cried. Riddle froze in place, as the red light hit him. Yes. Perhaps _that_. This way, while he continued to feed off Ginny's energy, at least it wouldn't be _squandered_.

Still… Harry did not trust the man not to be faking it. He didn't know just how much the armour could defend against—and there was a hole in it from the basilisk fang. He glared at the fang, where it lay, a few feet away, and then blinked as Fawkes swooped down, dropping a familiar black book in front of him.

"Are we a team, then, Guy?" he asked the phoenix. The bird trilled in response, cocking its head at him, and took to the air again.

He surveyed his surroundings, again. Riddle had managed to come far too close, and the basilisk was still a few feet beyond the discarded fang, dead. The rest of his line of sight was eclipsed by the thick black cord, with all its little tendril-fibres wisping off it. He frowned at it, considering the merits of closing his seventh sense, just a bit.

A thought occurred to him. What if he tried to cut through the cord with the sword? But, no. What would become of all of Ginny's soul-stuff now fueling the projection of Tom Riddle?

But if he destroyed the source….

He impaled the diary with the sword, with no ceremony or fanfare, watching as the stream of darkness abruptly began to undulate, and then shattered, and Riddle faded away where he stood, leaving no trace of his existence. Ink spurted from the book, despite its darkness far too like blood for Harry's tastes. Across the room, at the statue's feet, he could hear Ginny take in a great gulp of air. He glanced over at her, saw a white luminescence surround her, very like the one that usually surrounded his mother.

Soul-stuff, returned to her. After a few seconds, the glow subsided. Harry turned back to the ruined diary, and stuffed it into the pocket of his cloak.

He began to think at a furious pace. Ginny was still unconscious, but for how long? He was glad that she would wake, but….

Well, for one thing, he didn't want her to see the armour. He wasn't sure how she would take it, or whether he could swear her to secrecy about it. It was not something he wanted made known, particularly not to Dumbledore, or McGonagall, or anyone else with the intelligence to guess at its nature, and the power to do something about it.

But, beyond that… the Sorting Hat had given him a gift, had entrusted him with the protection of the sword, whatever it was. He did not intend to abuse that trust. He was rather in the Hat's debt, for putting him in gryffindor, and for entrusting him with this weapon.

Also, he had to admit, it was rather nice to have a weapon that he knew how to use, to put that old training to use. If he ever crossed paths with Thor, he would deny it with vehemence, but as it was….

Well, it was reassurance—a reassuring, familiar weight, and he didn't _want_ to let it out of his sight. He didn't trust anyone else with it. Maybe Ron and Hermione. Even more doubtful, maybe Dumbledore. But if he could keep it….

An idea struck him, and he walked over to the discarded fang at a brisk pace. He remembered his shrinking and enlargement charms. And he had been practicing with the other sort of magic. He could do this, he was sure.

He needed a scabbard, he decided. Had there been any skeletons or loose rocks here in the Chamber, he would have transfigured one. As it was, he made a sort of makeshift one out of ice, encasing the sword in water and then freezing it, and then frowning in concentration. He held the sword in one hand, and the basilisk fang in the other, and compared the two.

Yes, this part would be pretty tricky, but he could _definitely_ handle that. But for such a complicated illusion—one that affected sight and _touch_…. He sighed, shook his head, and laid them down side by side.

Desire. Focus. He watched as they shimmered, seeming to switch places, and he frowned, wondering how he intended to keep a spell going when he was, himself, far away. Say, at the Dursleys.

His ice had had staying power. He'd just have to create a self-sustaining cover for sword and fang.

This was strangely difficult to do. He settled for adding a layer of substance—pure magic, around each, wrapping it around them. That should sustain the illusion…at least for a few years. Long enough for him to graduate. He hoped.

He shrank the sword down, and put it in his pocket. He turned back to glance again at a still-unconscious Ginny before picking up the fang, and then made a detour to pick up the Sorting Hat, and put it in his pocket with Riddle's diary, before curving his path around to meet Ginny.

She still hadn't woken, although he thought she probably should have, with Tom's defeat. Had he retreated to his diary? Harry'd seen the halo around Ginny's form—the returned soul substance. But perhaps it wasn't enough.

Slowly, carefully, he lifted her up, carrying her in his arms over to the front of the statue, and leant back against Slytherin's shoe. He laid her down carefully before the statue, and then knelt next to her. If nothing else, being carried—no matter how careful he'd been not to jostle her—should have woken her.

He bit his lip, a sinking feeling in his stomach. He hadn't realised, absurd though it was to make the mistake twice, that he cared whether or not she lived or died. Or rather, he'd known, but he hadn't realised that he cared about _her_.

He bowed his head, glancing half-heartedly at the hole in his armour, how the basilisk fang had burnt a hole all around where it had penetrated, and then had also burnt away his robes—like acid. He'd died. Perhaps he should be taking this time to come to terms with that fact. He'd used a bit of the other magic, and it had worked. He could think about that, too. But his mind kept coming back to the question: why didn't Ginny wake?

And thoughts of the other magic brought back to mind another time, when he'd noticed how flexible armour was, and taken up vigil after draining himself to dangerous levels, to keep his brother alive.

But that wasn't him. Perhaps, it had never happened at all.

Why wasn't Ginny waking? The next time he spoke to Mother, he'd have to ask her to teach him how to heal. He had now realised the inevitability of being dragged into life-threatening situations his every year at Hogwarts. He needed to be ready. For now, however…he had to do the only thing he knew _how_ to do (and that was iffy).

With a sigh, he lifted her up to cradle her in his arms, against the statue. He couldn't risk dropping her, after all, if he got too engrossed in what he was doing, stopped paying attention to the outside world. And he rather suspected that such proximity was required—physical contact, that was. He could have taken her hand, but….

Well, this felt right, somehow, and he wasn't about to question his intuition. He reopened his seventh sense, and opened his sixth sense as far as it could go, and, following the guidance of that unforgettable dream, he channeled his _own_ lifeforce into Ginny, trying to replenish what she had lost. Not just soul, not just body, but a mixture of both. Riddle had very nearly killed her, and even the return of the rest of her life energy wouldn't repair all the damage Riddle had done. And then, too, he'd used magic, magic he must have funneled out of Ginny's lifeforce….

Fawkes had his limits, Harry knew, and here was the proof. He'd made no move to try to return Ginny's lifeforce. Why? Because he didn't care? No. Because it was not within his power. He was, despite how incredible even the non-legendary phoenix was, still only a mortal creature. But Harry….

Harry knew he didn't have the power to resurrect the dead, as Fawkes had to a limited degree. But what he was doing now, he admitted to himself, was beyond the abilities of an ordinary wizard. He doubted Dumbledore could do this either. The other magic wasn't wizarding magic.

It could still be accidental magic, though, right?

And as he watched these thoughts pass the backdrop of his mind, he continued to focus on channeling magic into Ginny.

He could see it now, the hole he was filling in her heart. The substance she'd _lost_ to Riddle. Unlike Thor, who was suffering from a mortal wound, when all the energy you funneled in just flowed back out, Ginny needed a mere transfusion, which was difficult enough.

He felt her begin to stir in his arms as that hole into which he'd been funneling substance closed. He opened his eyes, as exhaustion began to creep over him. He'd drained quite a bit of his own energy, all told.

Ginny opened her eyes, brow furrowing as she frowned in confusion.

"Where—where am I?" She looked to her left, first, and gasped, as she took in the Chamber of Secrets. Of course, its most defining feature was in fact to her _right_, and behind Harry. Maybe the basilisk was evidence enough.

She seemed to understand anyway, bursting into tears.

"Shh. It's alright now, Ginny," Harry said, softly. She started, but he didn't smirk at the response. She must be terrified…he didn't want to alarm her more. "Riddle's dead, same as the basilisk. You're safe."

He smiled at her, as her head jerked to the side to stare at him.

"Harry?" she asked, as she had once before. "…Harry Potter?"

His smile widened. "No. Harry Houdini," he replied, with a tilt of his head. She crossed her arms in a pout, and then seemed to realise the position she was in, turning beet red. Almost directly after _that_, all the colour drained from her face.

She managed to surge to her feet, backing away from him. He sighed, and knelt beside her, with her, on the floor. She was on her knees, her hands covering her eyes as she wept. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Mother's armour had gone, again.

"Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry," she wailed. "I tried to tell you at breakfast the other day, but Tom wouldn't let me…. He made me do those things, I didn't want to; I didn't know! I was too weak to fight him off—"

Harry's eyes narrowed at that last statement. He turned to face her with his most serious look. "That he overpowered you does not make you _weak_, Ginny Weasley," he said. "Your only mistake was to ever trust in him at all, and how were you to know any better? I wrote in the diary, too, and I could no more tell the danger than you."

"But Dad says—"

"'Never trust something that can think for itself, if you can't see where it keeps its brain', perhaps?" Harry interjected. Ginny bowed her head.

"All this, all the fear this school has been under, and all the suspicion you've suffered—it's all been because of me! This is all my fault! I wish I could just—"

"Look at me, Ginny," Harry said, keeping his voice calm and non-judgemental. "This is _not_ your fault. It is as you said: Riddle _made_ you do those things. And he has much to answer for. But I shall never forgive him this."

"You risked your life to save me, after everything I did—" Ginny was saying. "But you don't understand! You're not listening to me! I don't _deserve_ to be saved, after what I did—"

Harry frowned, and then immediately leveled his expression out again. This was all sounding _far_ too familiar. "But I _do_ understand, Ginny. I know _exactly_ how you feel."

She turned to him, eyes narrowed, looking rather petulant, but her expression faltered. She seemed suddenly unsure. "What—what do you mean?" she asked.

"You were possessed. Something was controlling you. I have some experience with that, myself."

He bowed his head. "The shame. The remorse. The sense that you _just weren't strong enough_. I know exactly how you feel, Ginny. Only, I think you might be less at fault for your actions than I was mine. But ask Ron. Tell him I told you to ask him, if need be. He knows better than I. I don't even remember—"

"There's gaps in my memory, too!" Ginny said. "I don't suppose I'll ever fully remember what happened, when he—it was like he shut me out of my own _mind_, and I—"

"I know," Harry said, raising his head to meet her gaze. He shook his head, and held out a hand to stop her from continuing. "Ginny, no one will blame you for what happened. I will see to that. But, when you're ready, we should go back. Ron is probably about ready to try to break down the door to the Chamber of Secrets by now."

Ginny just knelt there, staring at him with an unfamiliar, new expression. It was as if he'd become real to her, as if she were finally seeing _him_, and not the legend or myth. That she understood that he was a person, and that he had his own history, his own strengths and weaknesses, triumphs and defeats.

"Riddle has given us something in _common_," Harry said. "And he has yet to answer for that. He shall pay. Someday. But for now, I'm sure your family is worried about you."

He stood, and then, thinking of his mother, bent down, held out a hand to help her up. "Come, Ginny. It will not become any easier if you delay. And your family—and I—will fight for you. And if ever…" he closed his eyes, swallowed, took a deep breath, "if ever you need to talk about this, I'll listen."

She took his hand, with the greatest hesitation, wary, and he was patient. He stood stock still, and waited for her to take that hand, and pulled her gently to her feet.

"Can you walk?" he asked her, and she bit her lip, and nodded.

"The diary—" she began, and he reached into his pocket with the other hand, pulling it out to show it to her. She glanced down and away from it, and he stuffed it back into his pocket.

"Wait a second," he ordered her, and she must have been surprised when he walked around the side of Slytherin's shoe and came back with a silver sword.

"What—where did you?"

"Get a sword?" he finished, with a wry smile. "The Sorting Hat named me the guardian-protector of Hogwarts, and I asked it for a weapon with which to defeat the basilisk. It gave me a sword. I don't know anything more about it, really."

He smiled at her. She frowned.

"You're being nice to me again," she said.

"Sorry," he said, with a lopsided smirk. Ginny glowered, and then beamed at him.

He decided that Ginny made no sense, and that he didn't mind.

* * *

They made their way back out of the Chamber of Secrets. Ron had cleared a path whilst Harry had been fighting for his life (or, more like, _Ginny's_), and the rockfall had been reduced to rubble. Ron had made short work of it, and, by his expression, vented some frustration as well. Harry nodded to him, as they emerged from the Chamber.

"Harry!" cried Ron, spotting Harry first. "You're alive! But Ginny—"

Harry ignored the way his voice wavered at the end. In response to the unspoken question, he pulled Ginny forwards into the torchlight.

Ron came forward, then, and, abandoning all pretence or self-dignity, threw his arms around both of them, almost crushing them to death in a bear hug. Harry held the dangerous sharp object in his right hand as far away and back as he could, trying to avoid so much as scratching either Ron or Ginny. When making his plan, he should have accounted for Ron's exuberance.

"Might I remind you that we are still alive, and therefore need to breathe? Also, I would prefer not to break any ribs, and I think Ginny is of the same mind. In other words: Ron, ease up. You're crushing us."

He was already pushing against Ron's arms with his free hand, to soften the pressure for Ginny, who could little afford any stress to her weakened body. She needed to be checked over by Madam Pomfrey.

But first, they had to get out of here. Ron drew back, holding them at arm's length, and rested a hand on Harry's shoulder.

"You fought the basilisk, and lived to tell the tale. Well done, little brother."

This was an assumption, in two parts, but a reasonable one. Ron knew of the basilisk, but not of Riddle. They had come down here expecting to encounter the basilisk. Thus, Harry rolled his eyes, and made sure to put some distance between them before he said the dangerous part of his next response.

"I see you've been listening to the Twins," he said, nodding. "It took you surprisingly long to start calling me that—Right on time, Guy!" He interrupted himself, as Fawkes came swooping in from…somewhere. Harry wasn't entirely sure that Fawkes couldn't just fly through walls, except then you would think that he…oh what did it matter?

Before he could lose his nerve, he ran for the entrance to the passageway, the still open slide, calling out after him, "Oh, and I didn't quite survive, either! The basilisk killed me, but Fawkes brought me back."

It was, after all, important for Ron to have the whole story. But, he could practically feel Ron's mood sinking from here.

"Do you mean to tell me," Ron began, with a deadly dangerous voice that made Harry wonder if he were about to die yet again, "that you _died_ again?"

Oops. Perhaps he should have waited a bit longer.

"Details, details," he said, waving a hand in dismissal. "Are you going to stand there whining, or are we going to leave this place? What happened to Lockhart, anyway?"

Lockhart was sufficient distraction. Ron glared down at the floor of the corridor as if it had personally offended him. "I fear I may have lost sight of him as I was clearing the way for you," he said, before turning back for Ginny. "Ginny, do you need any help?"

She shook her head, tossing her hair back from her face. Already it looked brighter, healthier, livelier.

"A pity," Harry drawled. "Well, are you two coming?"

Ginny approached, walking on her own power, with a slight, psychosomatic, limp. Ron followed, as if to catch her if she fell.

"How are we to leave this place? I see no means by which to climb the slide again—"

Harry smiled. "Guy will help us. Don't you know about phoenixes? They're brave, loyal, have amazing healing powers, and can carry extremely heavy loads. We're nothing next to Guy's maximum load. All aboard the Fawkes Express!"

Fawkes held out a talon, and Harry grabbed hold with the hand not carrying the "sword".

"Harry, is that a _sword_?" Ron asked. Harry said nothing. He'd have to explain to _someone_ what they'd just done. They'd hear the fuller version of the tale soon enough.


	21. All's Well (for Now)

Fifteen minutes later, they were standing outside the door of Headmaster Dumbledore's office with Professor McGonagall frowning at them, owing to their recent flagrant rule-breaking. Harry was still trying to understand the news. Dumbledore had _returned_, whilst he was down battling the basilisk? Now he wanted to speak with them, and with Ginny, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were both waiting along with him?

Myrtle wished he'd died so that he could share her bathroom?

There was an almost surprising lack of attention paid to the absent Defence teacher. Perhaps Dumbledore had had his measure long before, and knew to expect him to flee. Harry frowned at that thought.

"Come in," called Dumbledore, interrupting his mental wanderings. Rather than giving Harry the opportunity to brace himself, Professor McGonagall threw the door open herself, and, in her usual way, stormed inside before anyone else, knowing that they must follow.

Ron glanced at Harry, as if to ensure that he was still alive, and then held open the door, that Harry or Ginny might enter first. For once.

Ginny pushed past Harry on unsteady feet, the sight of her crying parents enough to give her the strength to make her way forward. Harry let her go, carefully avoiding scratching her with, you know, the pointy object he still had in his hands. McGonagall had either not noticed it, or thought that its confiscation was better left to Dumbledore.

Ron glanced at Harry again, silently asking who should go next. Harry folded his arms (or approximated the gesture, with his right hand still out to the side dangling), and jerked his head towards the door. He knew that he himself would not be able to escape—it would never be allowed—but he still needed the time to gather his thoughts. He'd been planning what to say as soon as he'd made sure that Ginny was alright. They needed to know the truth.

Or at least, most of it. But only with the truth in the open might whoever Dobby's masters were be punished. And perhaps, when that time came, he could also reward Dobby for his efforts. Those plans were left unfinished. But, he knew what to say for the moment, at least.

He steeled himself, and pushed the door open. The scene that met his eyes was pretty standard Weasley fare, with Arthur Weasley resting a hand on Ginny's back, the only part of her he could reach, as Mrs. Weasley was crushing her to death. That must be where Ron got his bear hugs from, Harry mused.

Ron himself stood to the side, with Fawkes, who looked around the room before settling into his cage. McGonagall stood to the side of Dumbledore's desk, glaring at the door, as Harry walked in. And behind the desk, looking serene, the truest fixture of Hogwarts: Headmaster Dumbledore. Harry bowed his head, looking down, self-conscious now.

McGonagall caught sight of him, then. "Mr. Potter. So good of you to finally join us." Harry stared at the floor, and said nothing.

"Ron told us you saved Ginny," Mrs. Weasley said. "Oh, thank you, Harry, thank you. We were so worried…we heard the news, and we…well, you saved Ginny. Words are insufficient thanks."

"You gave me your home to stay in last summer," he said, not meeting her gaze. "I just did what anyone would have, in my position."

He missed the incredulous stares cast his way, eyes downcast as they were. Dumbledore, or someone, had set a number of beanbag chairs around the room. He sat down in one, careful as always to avoid stabbing anyone, himself included. That would be bad.

"Perhaps, Mr. Potter, you could explain to us just what happened. I think we all would like to know." McGonagall just _had_ to interfere, didn't she?

"Professor McGonagall—" Ron began. Trying to buy Harry time, perhaps. Trying to spare him, perhaps. He would never know.

"Mr. Weasley, that's enough from you. Mr. Potter?" she turned back to Harry. He couldn't meet her eyes.

"Lemon drop?" asked Dumbledore, eyes twinkling. He held out the familiar, shallow bowl, and Harry took one, and unwrapped it. Ron hesitated, but took one as well.

"Albus, now is not the time—" McGonagall was saying. Harry ignored her.

"They're a muggle invention," Ron told his father, who brightened up, just a bit, and took one of the offered candies. The other two, the last two remaining, seemed to feel that they would be rude to decline. Harry gave the idea that he might have started a tiny trend a moment's thought, but no more grace than it deserved, and frowned. He'd _thought_ he'd planned exactly what to say, but….

"Where to begin?" he asked, spreading his hands wide. He didn't feel like explaining all the gory, gruesome details with the kindly Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. He wanted to spare them as much as possible.

"I find that it's usually best to start at the beginning."

Yes, well, in such a case as this, where _was_ the beginning? Dobby, he decided. That was the closest he'd come to one.

And thus, he launched into his tale, explaining how Dobby had come to visit him over the summer, his cryptic warnings, pausing as his explanation about "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named" came clear to Harry. Of course. Before Voldemort had become internationally infamous, no one would ever have feared the name "Tom Riddle"—and indeed, it still was not widely known. He frowned. Dobby needed to learn to be clearer, but had other faults needing more immediate correction.

He continued on, with a shrug, skipping over the closed barrier, which Dumbledore already knew about, and then, glancing in Ron's direction, silently asking for advice, he paused. Ron nodded, as if reading his mind, and Harry exhaled sharply. He told of the voice within the walls, of Hermione's detective work, that she had worked out that the basilisk had been using the plumbing, but had been petrified before she could reveal what she had learnt to Harry and Ron.

He glanced over at Ginny, trying to catch her eye, ask how she fared, see whether or not she was ready to discuss her role in this.

"What I am most curious about," said Dumbledore, "is how Voldemort could be possessing Ginny, when my sources say he is currently hiding in the forests of Albania."

Ginny flinched at the mention of the word "possessing", and Harry lifted his gaze for the first time, frowning at the professor.

"You-Know-Who? P—possess Ginny?" Mrs. Weasley stuttered, her face ashen, her voice quavering with suppressed emotion, as she tried to be brave for her only daughter. Ginny flinched again at the reminder, and Harry again was reminded of himself. That was not a good thing. Harry felt the need to rush back into things, to spare Ginny more talk of the matter, when she had only just begun to recover. Did her parents see how thin and frail she was?

He pulled the diary out of his pocket, along with the Sorting Hat, which he set on the desk first, holding it by the brim. Then he slammed the diary onto the desk with such violence that everyone except Ron jumped. Even Dumbledore's spindly instruments jumped.

"Did you stop to consider that speaking of such might be a sensitive topic for her, who only recently was still in his thrall? But _this_ is the answer to your question. This diary belonged to a 'T. M. Riddle', whose name I'm sure you know, although you were unwilling to share it when I asked you last year. Perhaps we might have avoided some of this, had you been more forthcoming."

His voice was harsh and sharp; full of bitter anger, he lashed out at Dumbledore as he could not Voldemort. Yet.

Ron came over to stand by him, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Peace, little brother," he said. "It is too late to change what has already happened. I am certain that Dumbledore made what he viewed as the best choice at the time. He could not have predicted, any more than we, what was to come this year."

Harry bowed his head, looking down at the floor again, but now it was because he didn't trust himself not to lash out, if he were to look at Dumbledore and see that the man's eyes were still twinkling. Ginny was _suffering_; was he the only one who noticed?

"It's okay, Harry," Ginny said, and he turned to look at her. She was slumped in her mother's arms, still, head bowed so that her hair hid her face. Even her voice sounded defeated. Resigned.

It was impossible to see the state she'd been left in, and not be consumed by wrath, if you had any soul at all. And yet, as he looked at her, he felt something else begin to eat away at that. Guilt. Shame. Pity. He knew how she felt, but she was so strong! They talked about the sensitive issue as if she were made of iron, not glass, and she was up to the challenge, as Harry knew he never would be.

"He wrote in it when he was sixteen. Whatever he did to it, his…_lifeforce_, I suppose you could say, was preserved within it."

His voice was perhaps too level, too empty, too calm. He was weary, worn out from the recent ups and downs, from the battles he'd recently fought, from his use of the _other_ kind of magic. He wanted to go even to the Hospital Wing, and rest. But he kept on, because there was no other choice. He thought of another time, when he had kept on (but that wasn't him!) for no other reason but that the _Mercy_ of death was denied him.

He swallowed, looking down again, away from Ginny, feeling unworthy to be in the same room.

"I—I've been writing in it all year—and he's been writing back!" she said, her voice loud and clear, despite it all. Harry glanced over at her again, despite himself.

"Ginny! How many times have I told you? I've said 'Never trust something that can think for itself—'"

"Mr. Weasley, please," Harry begged. "She's having a hard enough time as it is. Don't make it worse for her."

"It's okay, Harry," she said, looking up at last, smiling at him. "It's only because Dad cares, and he's worried."

_But you wouldn't understand __**that**__, would you?_ Harry couldn't bear to look at her. What if he'd figured things out back that night, when Hermione had been petrified?

Ron's hand was still on his shoulder, grounding him, keeping his mind from wandering too far down dangerous roads.

"As a matter of fact, Headmaster, I think she ought to go to the Hospital Wing…Riddle did quite a bit of damage, not all of it visible."

Ginny glared over in his direction, and then gave a tight, pained smile. He thought he understood, but that realisation just made him angrier. "Headmaster, I think—"

His thoughts were permanently derailed when the door was flung open with great force, and a familiar man with long blond hair entered. Attempting to black his boots as he walked was a familiar house-elf. Harry's eyes widened at the sight.

"Dumbledore! What are you doing back here? I believe that you had an order from the Board of Governors to leave this school. That did not mean for a few months only."

"Ah," said Dumbledore, and Harry was glad to be once more out of the spotlight, the silent observer watching events unfold. He did not begrudge Dumbledore his twinkling eyes.

"Well, it is a curious thing, Mr. Malfoy. I'm afraid that after word got out that Ms. Weasley here had been taken into the Chamber, I was simply _swamped_ by a sudden storm of owls from those governors, begging me to return. It was odd, though…some of them seemed to think you had threatened them into voting to send me off. All a misunderstanding, I'm sure, but as they've changed their minds, I'm not going against their decree by remaining here, now am I?"

Malfoy had to concede that fact, but he was a sore loser. He kicked out at Dobby, who was flung by his actions into the desk. Ron let go of Harry's shoulder, and was doubtless on the verge of picking a fight with Malfoy Senior, when Harry grabbed onto his forearm as tight as he could, yanking him back.

"Don't, Ron," he said. "Let _me_ handle this." With his grip on Ron still unyielding, he strode over to Mr. Malfoy, wishing he didn't have to look up to look the man in the eyes. He hated being so short. "Do you want to know how Ginny got hold of this diary that was the true source of all the problems of this year?" he asked Malfoy, voice deceptively calm.

Malfoy's gaze flickered to the diary. He scoffed, and tried to pretend that he'd never seen it before. He was not that great a liar. "How should I know where the little girl stumbled upon that book?" he sneered. "I have no great interest in their business."

"Ah, but you do," Harry said, leaning towards him. "Don't think anyone in Flourish and Blotts has forgotten the scene you made in the centre of their store, when you pulled out Ginny's Transfiguration book, and shoved this diary into it."

That was how the available facts added up, at least. That that was when Malfoy had given Ginny the diary.

Harry, gaze fixed upon Malfoy, barely noticed the Weasleys tense. Mr. Weasley looked as if he very much wanted a rematch, here and now, and Mrs. Weasley didn't seem much inclined to stop him.

"Prove it," Malfoy hissed, glaring down at Harry. Harry smiled, a smile devoid of warmth.

"Oh, I don't have to. The store was packed that day. There are more witnesses to your actions than you could hope to silence."

Ron went completely still, as still as a statue. Harry could feel how motionless Ron was, as if petrified, and turned to glance back at him.

"Tell me, Mr. Malfoy, what do you suppose the punishment would be for petrifying three students, and traumatising a twelve-year-old girl? I suppose you'll never see that much-deserved punishment, will you? But no one in this room will forget what you have done. And I swear to you that I will ensure, one way or another, that you never have the chance to do anything like this ever again."

Ron seemed to relax, behind him. Harry leant on the deadly weapon in his right hand, stance casual, awaiting Malfoy's response.

"Is that a _threat_, Potter?" he asked, at last.

"Only if you intend to harm more children," Harry said, still with that cold smile.

Malfoy swept from the room with a dramatic flair. The room seemed to relax.

"Say, Headmaster Dumbledore…I don't suppose I could give the diary _back_ to Mr. Malfoy, could I?" he asked, with a smaller, much more sincere smile. The Weasleys turned to stare at him. He shrugged, and then paused.

He had a few minutes until Malfoy could reach the edge of Hogwarts grounds, and he couldn't disapparate sooner than that, although Harry didn't know that. He didn't even know about apparation, yet. He just knew that Malfoy would have to leave as he arrived, and assumed that he had some time, at least.

"Mr. Potter, may I suggest that you leave that sword here, where we can see it. Although I trust you not to misuse it, the other students might be alarmed," McGonagall interjected, seeming to have found her voice once more.

"But I really wanted to keep it…" Harry wheedled. He turned to Ron. "Hold this, and be very careful with it. It's sharp."

"I am aware that swords are sharp, Harry," Ron said. Harry blinked. That almost sounded like sarcasm. But that couldn't be; everyone knew that Ron had no sense of humour. Or sarcasm.

But he could think about the improbability of _that_, later. He left the room, pausing on the stairs to pull off his sneaker, and then pull off a sock. These were muggle hand-me-downs anyway, and had never really fit. Now, they were further half-covered in slime and muck and blood (whose blood he wasn't sure, as there were three or four candidates). Huh. This last hour had been kind of weird, hadn't it?

He shrugged, stretching the sock over the diary as a sort of sheath, and then slipped the sneakers back on again. They were far too big, and would chafe his feet something awful, but it would be worth it. He hoped.

He strode down the stairs as if it didn't matter, running down the path Malfoy must have taken, until he caught up to Malfoy and Dobby.

"Mr. Malfoy! You forgot something," he said, voice full of fake cheer.

Harry thrust the diary into his hands. Malfoy's expression upon touching the filthy sock was priceless. Almost as priceless as his expression after he ripped the sock off, tossing it carelessly to the side, and Dobby caught it, and he heard Dobby's exultations about his newfound liberty.

Harry smiled. Oh, this was only the _beginning_ of his revenge. He'd spend some time in the library researching how to go about removing Malfoy from the Board of Governors—and maybe get him put on trial, at the very least. There was a wizarding newspaper…perhaps if he could spread the news fast enough, and far enough, people would be clamouring for his resignation.

For now, he contented himself with the sudden heat of Malfoy's glare as he realised just what had happened.

"You've cost me my servant, boy!" he cried, and made to hit Harry, but in that split second, Dobby was between them. A wave of energy expanded around the two of them—a concave barrier, almost visible to the naked eye, which flung Malfoy back several feet…and down a flight of stairs.

"You shall not touch Harry Potter. You will leave here, now!"

Harry felt much more highly of Dobby after that. "…Thank you, Dobby."

"Dobby needs no thanking, sir. Harry Potter has given Dobby the greatest gift he can imagine. Dobby is free! Dobby is a free elf!"

Malfoy slunk away, continuing down the halls. They watched him disappear out of sight, before Harry continued.

"Thank you for trying to warn me about…about everything. Dumbledore made me see that you meant well. But…I just want you to promise me one thing, alright?"

"Anything! Whatever Master Harry Potter asks, sir!" said Dobby, with cheerful enthusiasm. Harry winced. He wasn't sure he was trustworthy enough for _that_ sort of response. He shook his head.

"Never try to save my life again, okay?"

Dobby nodded, and disappeared.

Harry shook his head. Time to return to try to speak with Dumbledore and McGonagall. Ron had _better not_ have handed over the "sword".


	22. Paradigmatic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A vaguely worldbuildingy chapter, explaining some reasons for why we might sort Harry into gryffindor.

Ron hadn't handed the "sword" over. He was still gripping the fake-hilt tight when Harry returned. He handed it back over as Harry had, "hilt" first. There was a moment's disorientation for Harry, who had seen how Ron had held the blade—posture just perfect, as if he'd held a sword before. He hadn't noticed it when he'd gone to follow Mr. Malfoy, but….

It was just a coincidence, he told himself, and took the fang back from Ron.

"The Sorting Hat entrusted the sword to me," he said. "It told me that giving me it was a marker of its trust."

McGonagall's nostrils flared. "Be that as it may, Mr. Potter—" she began. He frowned, turning his attention to Dumbledore, sitting behind his desk with his hands clasped.

"I think you will find that the Sword of Gryffindor is safe in my care," he said, with a benevolent smile. Harry nearly spat out his lemon drop.

"'_Sword of Gryffindor_'?" he repeated. He'd heard of the artefact before, but there had never been any pictures, of course. Even in the Hogwarts library, there were no such records old enough that detailed its appearance predating its disappearance. There had been a few haphazard guesses as to how it might have looked before, which Harry gave little heed, knowing that in these later volumes, such depictions were mostly speculation. None of the authors or illustrators had seen the sword first-hand. Then, how did Dumbledore recognise it?

"How do you know—?" he began, effectively sidetracked, momentarily.

Dumbledore gave him a serene smile. "The ruby there, on the pommel, is one indication. But also, the headmaster of Hogwarts is privy to information not to be found in the main section of the library. There are other indications."

Ah, yes. If he'd truly been curious, he ought to have snuck into the Restricted Section. Duly noted. Apparently, some contemporary sketch or painting of the sword at least still existed, somewhere. He was almost inclined to sulk at this revelation, but he returned his mind to the topic at hand, instead.

"But, Professor…. I mean…this sword, I worked very hard to get it, and—"

"I believe your fellow students would feel safer if we limited you to a single weapon, Mr. Potter," McGonagall interjected.

Did his reputation precede him? What did she think he was going to use it for? Maddening though Malfoy was, he wasn't about to impale the jerk.

He sighed. "But—but if I needed to, if circumstances called for it, I could use it then, right? And—and no one is going to try to touch it or use it, right? The Hat made it quite clear—"

"Rest assured, Mr. Potter, I think I can confirm that no one will touch the sword in your absence."

Harry sighed again, glancing down at the intricate detail of the sword at his side. He _did_ want to keep it. He wanted to examine it some more, for one thing, and he felt better knowing that no one else had touched it. But he'd known all along that it would come to this. He paused.

"Does it have a sheath, or something? I don't want anyone to cut themselves—"

With a flick of his wand, a makeshift sheath of brown leather appeared on the table. Harry blinked, and then reached for it, slamming it to cover the exposed… weapon. Then, slowly, he handed them both over, with the greatest reluctance. Ron's hand landed on his shoulder, again.

They all seemed to relax with the thing safely in Dumbledore's possession. There was a palpable decrease in the room's tension. He might have bristled at the lack of trust they displayed, but it was clear that Ron, at least, trusted him enough not to be wary of him. And Ginny. Just the adults seemed to think he'd go around slashing it through paintings and decapitating first years.

"And now, if I might speak to you in private, Harry, I think we might leave the Weasleys to…adjust."

Ron's grip tightened on his shoulder. "If you wish for me to stay—" he began, but Harry turned back to him, and gave him a feeble smile that was his attempt at being bright and cheery. Oh, well.

"I'll be fine, Ron," he said. Ron continued to hesitate, watching his parents stand and make for the door, instead.

McGonagall left first, followed by Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, still smothering Ginny.

Only then did Ron's hand leave his shoulder, only then did he follow his parents and sister, and still he turned back at the threshold, as if to confirm once again that, yes, Harry was alive, and yes, he didn't need any help to face Dumbledore alone.

And then, there was stillness. Silence. Fawkes approached the front of his cage, but neither Dumbledore nor Harry moved for the moment. Harry found it easier to approach the cage, instead. He spoke to Dumbledore without turning to face him, as if speaking to Fawkes.

"Thank you for sending Guy to help me. If you hadn't…if he hadn't brought the Sorting Hat, I know I wouldn't have survived."

"I didn't send him," said Dumbledore, tone considering. "He must have come on his own. I must thank you, Harry. You must have shown me true loyalty down in that Chamber. Nothing else could have called Fawkes to you."

True loyalty. "Then, is that why you didn't seem to…_resent_ my lashing out at you?"

Dumbledore sighed. A glance in his direction revealed that his gaze was troubled, his eyes dark. "No, Harry. I'm afraid I deserve a bit of reproach, now and then, but, as a famed wizard renowned for his intellect, fewer people than I would like dare to reprimand me, and to remind me of my own shortcomings. We are, each of us, only human, and many people forget that I, too, have my faults." At the phrase "only human", Harry bit his lip to keep from saying…something. _What_, he wasn't sure. But Dumbledore continued, seemingly none the wiser.

"You were right. As was your friend Ron. If I had known, I would have told you of the name, _Tom Marvolo Riddle_. I should have done that this year, but instead I kept my silence. I should have realised that you would again be drawn into events…that Riddle would seek you out. Here is the proof I always sought for, but did not wish to find. Tom Riddle is Lord Voldemort. I taught him myself, many years ago. He was one of the most brilliant students Hogwarts has ever seen…."

Harry glanced at Dumbledore in time to catch the brief, wistful look. "I wonder, sometimes, whether I could have stopped his rise…but that is a thought for another time. You have met Tom Riddle. And I'm sure he was most interested in you…."

"I might have had more forewarning, had my scar hurt at all. But it didn't even twinge. Didn't you say last year that you thought it hurt when he was nearby, or feeling particularly strong emotion?" He remembered that, now. It hadn't hurt in the Chamber of Secrets, although, by Dumbledore's reasoning, it should have. Whether or not it should have when he was stuck viewing Tom Riddle's memory was up for debate. That needed less explanation.

"Is that right?" asked Dumbledore. "I wonder why that could be. Perhaps Riddle was not yet so evil as to cause you pain, or to be injured by the protection of your Mother's love. That is mere speculation. But it seems that as he grew older, his evil likewise grew. I do not have all the answers, Harry, understand. This is only my best guess."

Harry nodded. It seemed to follow reason. He relaxed a bit, perhaps reassured that Dumbledore wasn't just hiding things from him. But that left returning to Dumbledore's original question (and how did he know? Was it only because he knew Tom Riddle?).

Harry remembered Riddle's musings with a jolt like an electric shock (and he should know about those). "He…down there in the Chamber…." It was not often that he had to struggle to form words. This was one of those times. He was exhausted in many ways less superficial than strenuous exercise. He felt the weariness down to his soul.

Dumbledore waited for him, an odd look in his eyes. Not pity, not remorse, but perhaps a tinge of regret, of sorrow.

"He said…he said he thought we were very similar. Both orphans, both intelligent, with good marks and all, both parselmouths…but…he was wrong…wasn't he? He's a psychopath; he killed my Mum and Dad! But…deep down…am I any better? Am I a monster, Professor?"

Dumbledore sighed. "The very fact that you are troubled enough to ask that question is evidence against it. Yes, you can speak parseltongue, a prized gift that Slytherin favoured in his own students, as he was a parselmouth himself. But I suspect that that ability stems from certain…characteristics passed on to you by Lord Voldemort when he attempted to kill you when you were a baby. I fear that, that night, he put a bit of his soul in you, not something he meant to do, I believe—"

Harry gasped, as he was doubtless meant to. "'Some of himself'?" he repeated. He thought again of the Sorting Hat's warning: _You may have sensed it, Your Grace: a corner of your mind is not your own. Tread with caution around it…_. Had _that_ been what the Sorting Hat had meant?

But no, it had been speaking of _Thanos_ just before. Then, was Voldemort a secondary corruption of his mind? Or was that taint located elsewhere, and the Hat had never sensed it? Did Mother know? His thoughts began to head along their own track, and he spoke with less care in his words: "Then…then I _do_ belong in slytherin…if he's partly who I am—"

"I would not go that far," Dumbledore said, voice almost stern. No, _bracing_. "You sell yourself short. His soul might have had an influence on you, but it is hardly a marker of who you are. The Sorting Hat chose you for gryffindor. You know why that was. Think."

Harry bowed his head, letting his bangs cast his eyes in shadow, hiding the scar Lily Evans hated to see. "The Sorting Hat thought that slytherin would lead me down the wrong road," he said. As he was seeking for Dumbledore's honest opinion, there was no sense in lying. "I think it wanted to put me in slytherin…but I didn't want to go there…I didn't want to be the monster, the bad guy, the villain. But you want what you don't have—"

"But that makes you _very_ different from Riddle," said Dumbledore, firmly. "It is our _choices_ that make us who we are, far more than our abilities. And yes, you happen to have a few traits that Slytherin himself prized, but then, so did your father…indeed, he was far more rebellious and a troublemaker than you have been.

"You are more often maligned than malevolent, as I have noticed. If you wish to be a better person—to be the sort of person who fits the paradigm of Gryffindor House—why, that is _exactly_ the sort of person that Gryffindor most valued in _his_ house. Slytherin is the house of ambition, true, but Gryffindor is the house of those who seek to become better than they are—not financially, or physically, but to straighten out their priorities and purge their souls of regrets. Those who wished to be the hero, who sought for fame and glory, or even 'mere' redemption, were Gryffindor's most treasured students, more than those already possessed of great courage and fame. You may think that Mr. Weasley is a true gryffindor, but you are, in your own way, the truest example. That is why the Sorting Hat entrusted the Sword of Gryffindor to _you_. Only a _true_ gryffindor could pull that sword from the Hat."

Harry looked down, looking for a gap in Dumbledore's argument. The only one he could find were the events he was still half-denying to himself. He didn't want those to be true….

Regardless, Mother had already reassured him about that. But to hear that someone outside his family and inner circle agreed….

Slowly, he turned to look at Dumbledore. "I killed Lockhart, though. And Quirrell."

Dumbledore sighed. He glanced down at his desk, and Harry flinched, thinking he'd gone too far this time, that he was going to be sent away, arrested, expelled, stripped of magic….

"Why?" asked Dumbledore instead.

"Well—" Harry blinked, unsure of what to say. He found himself defensive, crossing his arms protectively over his chest. "Quirrell—he was working with Voldemort! If I hadn't, he might have used the Stone to resurrect him—"

"And Lockhart?" asked Dumbledore. Harry looked down.

"I don't know," he said. "He'd been making my life miserable all year, and then…and then he threatened to obliviate Ron and me, when we were the only ones who knew about the basilisk, and I was the only one who could open the Chamber of Secrets. When he tried to wipe our minds the second time, I just…I just _snapped_."

He looked up, to meet Dumbledore's gaze. Then he looked down, fists clenched. He lowered his fists to his side (_show no weakness_) and awaited the verdict. Surely, _now_ Dumbledore would call him a monster, and cast him out.

Instead, Dumbledore sighed, again. "We all do things we regret, in the heat of the moment. If I were there, I could reassure you better about the morality of your choices, but… I know you, Harry, and I trust your judgement. Killing has never been your first choice, in other matters. And had you not acted, do you believe that Ginny would be alive now?"

No. He didn't.

"Life if full of difficult choices, and sometimes there is no good one. It seems as if you chose the kinder path first, and resorted to violence only when that failed. I think that you are not to blame, Harry. I know you made a very difficult choice, and have too often had the weight of the world thrust onto your shoulders, one way or another. This time next year, remind me, and I will tell you the truth about the reason your parents died. For now, you look dead on your feet. I think you've kept Madam Pomfrey waiting long enough. But Harry…" he trailed off abruptly as Harry, recognising a dismissal when he heard one, was almost to the door. "Feel free to come back to speak to me at any time."

The offer reminded him of that which he had made to Ginny. And he could sense that Dumbledore was just as sincere. His throat tightened (how did he deserve this?) but he looked back to Dumbledore, and nodded.

Unlike Dumbledore, it was just a gesture. He didn't mean it.

* * *

It was the end of term, and final exams had been canceled for those who had been petrified, which was just as well; Hermione was still fervently going over her notes anyway when the next year course schedules came around. They could choose a number of new classes to take from third year through fifth, when, at the end of the year, they would take their O.W.L.s, and choose a specialty. Harry pored over the new course descriptions with Hermione and Ron.

Hermione badgered all the upperclassmen she could find about which courses she should take, and then defeated the purpose of such by signing up for all of them, anyway. Ron was more judicious, conferring with Harry about the merits of this and that.

Harry knew he had no need of Ancient Runes, and Arithmancy, the magic of numbers, sounded a bit too statistical for his tastes. Care of Magical Creatures would be much like hanging out with Hagrid, but he would still learn a lot of interesting things in a brand-new field of magic. He frowned. A maximum of three courses (he wondered how they'd choose for Hermione). Muggle Studies was redundant, raised by the Dursleys as he was, although Ron should take that class, pureblood as he was (Ron waved him off when he said this, claiming that he knew "enough").

Divination, though…. Between dreams of what seemed to be the future, and an innate curiosity about the whims of fate, added onto the almost-forgotten-until-then mystery of Ragnarök, and how it was that human mythologists had known so damn much about the Norse Gods…he knew that Divination was a requirement. Divination, Care of Magical Creatures…what else?

Not Ancient Runes. Not Muggle Studies. He looked over the list again. Well…_maybe_ Arithmancy, unless it were some sort of numerological nonsense.

Ron would not share his reasons for choosing Divination, same as Harry was, which was an unusual display of secrecy on his part, but he was willing to share his reasons for picking Care of Magical Creatures. For one thing, he was curious about what Charlie had seen in dragons. But then, there was the very good point that Hagrid was liable to rope them into any further projects of his, which Harry had to concede. Especially now that he'd been cleared of all charges against him, and was free to use magic. Hogwarts was going to be a rather interesting place, next year.

And of course, then there was just plain old interest, same as Harry. That they were almost certain to have less homework in that class was a factor Ron admitted with cheerful goodwill. Ron was taking the minimum of courses (two).

Harry wished that they could swap out these classes for pointless classes he was already taking: i.e., Potions and Astronomy. But, you couldn't have everything.

In the end, he settled for just Divination and Care of Magical Creatures, same as Ron. With luck, Hermione would be in those two classes, as well. Perhaps they chose classes for you in part based on what social circles you ran in. Hey! It was a possibility!

Once final exams were taken (despite the lack of Defence Professor), and their bags were packed, it wasn't long before they were headed back to their homes. Or, in Harry's case, Number Four, Privet Drive. Ron had already taken him aside to thrust a new container of rings at Harry. It felt rather similar to last year, only this time, he hadn't spent forever in the Hospital Wing. Also, they hadn't had a complete quidditch cup. And the House Cup had been canceled as well (owing to "a lack of opportunity on the part of houses to properly compete"). At least it wasn't as biased as last year.

Malfoy was even more insufferable after his father was kicked off the Board of Governors. Harry hadn't even had to do anything, but he'd roped Hermione into studying Wizarding Law almost as soon as she'd been released from the Hospital Wing.

On May Thirty-First, he'd asked his mother for help with learning how to heal, and she, shaking her head still (she'd just heard what had happened, the whole story, complete with filling in the missing puzzle pieces), had agreed. It was clear that she approved, which was perhaps the best part of the deal. That night was mostly spent with her laying down foundational rules, because that was how she taught. He didn't mind, too much. He didn't expect to get into too much trouble over the next month, although…with the Dursleys, you never knew.

And Ginny had occasionally paused just to say hello to him, and then dash away again. He had no idea what to think about that.

But now, the year was over, and he had to go back to his relatives. (He was unsurprised to find that they'd fixed the barrier wall in his absence—or perhaps Dobby had.) Here was hoping that next year was _much_ less eventful.

{end _Psychopaths and Liars_}


End file.
